


Cursed

by kleinehexe36



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Betaed, Canon Compliant, During Canon, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Major Character Injury, Mind Control, Plot, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleinehexe36/pseuds/kleinehexe36
Summary: There are situations when even a witcher needs help. Geralt sends for Triss Merigold but things are not as easily resolved as he had hoped.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold
Comments: 53
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This little story is set during season 1 some time after the striga fight. It's my first fic in this universe, so any feedback is welcome. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, my warmest thanks to Sammys_Girl for betaing this work. You're the best!

Triss Merigold opened the chamber door after her second knocking had remained unanswered. She lingered in the doorway for a brief moment and gazed at the white-haired witcher who was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing his back. He had a bandage wrapped around his torso and was busy securing it in the front. She was just about to say something when he turned around to nod at her, acknowledging her presence.

“Triss.”

His gaze met hers across the room.

“I'm sorry.” Her cheeks blushed, embarrassed at having caught him only half dressed. Court decorum was so ingrained in her that she cast her eyes to the floor before it occurred to her that the witcher was used to behavior a lot less polite.

“Your note said it was urgent, and when you didn't call me in, I thought…,” she interrupted herself and pushed a lock of dark hair from her face, lifted her gaze. When she continued, the embarrassment from her voice was gone. “I'll wait downstairs in the taproom. Come and join me when you're ready.”

She turned to leave but was interrupted by his gravel voice.

“No, it's okay. Please come in.”

She hesitated, then closed the door behind her.

“Thank you for coming.”

Her eyes wandered across the small bedroom, furnished with a plain wooden bed near the window and a simple wardrobe. There was a nightstand with a washing bowl and pitcher, a small table and a set of chairs. The lack of flowers or paintings at the wall fit the impression she had gotten of the inn from the outside. Its standard of comfort was far below anything she would have rented for herself, but then again, she was a sorceress and in employ of the king. Her resources exceeded that of a traveling monster slayer by far.

Her gaze fell on a bundle of cloth next to the foot of the bed, which at second glance turned out to be a heap of bloodied bandages. Geralt had turned his back again and she stood for a moment, indecisively, then walked across the room and sat down at the table, facing him.

“You're wounded.” She stated the obvious.

Geralt had apparently finished tying the bandage in place and reached for the bowl to rinse the blood from his hands. Only now, she noticed the collection of glass vials scattered near his bag, most of them empty. His two swords leaned within reach against the wall near the headboard.

“Hmm.”

“Monster?”

Her inquiry was met by a tired glance of his yellow eyes.

“Knife.”

Triss raised her eyebrows. “Must have gotten you deep.” She nodded towards the soiled bandages on the floor. “How did it happen?”

“Bar fight.”

“Want me to have a look?”

Triss remembered how fast he had recovered after the striga fight. Considering the amount of empty vials, the wound had given him some trouble. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

“Geralt?”

He reached for his shirt, ignoring her question, and winced slightly as the movement caused him pain. She watched as he pulled it over his head with a barely suppressed groan. He looked paler than she remembered him. Exhausted. She noticed that his left hand was bandaged, too but decided not to address it.

“Well, apparently you didn't send for me to treat your injuries.”

His behavior was starting to irritate her. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and seized him up.

“Geralt, why am I here?”

He hesitated, apparently not knowing where to begin. The way he slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees while bowing his head, he looked as if an invisible load weighed on his shoulders. The crease between Triss's brows deepened.

“I need your expertise,” he finally said.

He nodded towards a paper on the table next to her and she reached over, held it up for him to see.

“This?”

He nodded again.

It was a diagram drawn with charcoal, a symmetrical layout of runes with the sign of binding in its center. The kind of drawing a mage would use in a ritual. The layout was familiar to her, she had seen it in the black books of curses at the library of Aretuza. Some of the runes had been replaced by others, the shape of the lines of power had been altered slightly but the purpose of the spell was inherently clear. It was a spell of slavery.

Suddenly she realized why Geralt had sent for her.

“You've been cursed,” she said quietly, looking up to meet his tired gaze and for the first time she noticed another emotion in his eyes. Fear. Grey tendrils of chaos weaved through his aura, like a cobweb tying a helpless insect to its inevitable fate. She wondered why she had not sensed it when she had entered the room. “This is black magic. How did it happen?”

“Long story,” Geralt sighed.

“Indulge me.”

He grimaced, pressing a hand against his injured side. “Turn the paper.”

Triss complied and skimmed through the text on the backside. It was a common request you could find on many notice boards across the land. The call for a witcher. This one offered a substantial sum for ridding a graveyard near Vizima of a pair of wraiths.

“My guess is you took the contract,” she said. “What happened?”

He shrugged as if it was of no importance.

“I talked to the local priestess, who paid me half my coin in advance and pointed me in the direction of the graveyard. Took care of the wraiths easily enough and returned for the rest of my payment. Met her at the chapel nearby.”

Triss tilted her head, noting the slight shaking of his hand as he reached for the pitcher on the nightstand to take a swig.

“But something went wrong,” she prompted.

His lips twitched into a mirthless smile.

“She had already been waiting for my return. Handed me a pouch of coin and I counted the money. Well, I wanted to. Last thing I remember is the smell of mold and copper when I opened the pouch. When I came to, I was lying on the floor of the chapel, alone. There was a circle of runes drawn around me and there was a cut on my palm.”

He held up his bandaged hand and Triss pressed her lips together. This was bad. Blood magic enhanced the power of a curse considerably, rendering the bond near indestructible. In this case, the victim's mind was bound to the caster of the spell and forced him to execute his master's will. Whoever had performed the ritual now had a witcher at his command. Triss shivered at the thought of what this woman might make Geralt do. What he might have done already.

“What happened next?”

Triss looked at him with great intent, expression serious.

Geralt's voice sounded brittle as he continued. “I could feel the curse in my bones, but at first I didn't know how it would take effect. And I wasn't intent on waiting to find out. So I made a copy of the diagram just in case and tried to get a hold of that priestess – fake priestess as it turned out. But she had disappeared without a trace. Nobody even remembered her.”

He shook his head in frustration, angry with himself.

“When I stopped at the local tavern that evening, there were some young men playing cards. One of them looked at me and, I don't know, it must have been something about his face because all of a sudden I felt the overwhelming urge to kill him. Before I knew what was happening, I had drawn my sword and struck him down. His friends were at me in a second and I defended myself, tried not to hurt them as I realized what I had done. Then all hell broke loose. There was a lot of shouting, other people joining the fight. One of them got me with a knife. I don't know how I managed to get out of there without killing anybody else...”

She could hear the barely concealed desperation in his voice.

“Triss, you have to help me,” he said quietly and he sounded downright scared. “I have killed an innocent man and there's no telling what else this curse will make me do. Right now, I'm a danger to myself and others. Someone is using me and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Triss lowered her head, brows furrowed in thought.

“You know how curses work, Geralt. In order to lift it, we'd have to find the person who did this to you.”

“Actually, I was hoping that you could think of a different way of breaking the spell.”

She shook her head, knitted her brows in sympathy when she noticed the disappointment on his face.

“I'm sorry, Geralt. You are bound by blood.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “But maybe you can help me find her. Isn't there some magical way you can to track her down?”

Triss didn't respond right away, giving it some thought. There were ways a mage could locate a person, but it was not without difficulty. Even if she had an artifact to aid her – which she didn't – she had no idea where to begin. The mage could be hiding anywhere. Sure, there was the magical signature of the spell but Triss didn't have anything that belonged to that woman, did not even know her name.

“Triss?”

She hadn't noticed how long she had been silent. Geralt looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Well, I can try to track her down,” she said slowly. “No promises though. And I would need more information on her. Anything you remember.”

He nodded, relieved at the prospect of progress.

“Well, I can show her to you.”

Triss needed a moment to understand what he was suggesting.

“You want me to read your mind.”

Triss stared at him, unsure whether he was serious about this. Most people didn't like the idea of a mage prodding their thoughts, and she wasn't sure herself if she wanted to get inside his head. The human mind was a chaotic place, a torrent of emotions and memories, and even if he was capable of calming his mind enough to show her immediately what he wanted her to see, there would always be a fraction of unwanted thoughts that would go unfiltered. Private thoughts that he didn't want to share and she wouldn't want to see.

The look in his eyes told her that she didn't have to explain that to him. Yet he seemed determined to try.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded mutely, jaw locked tight.

“Alright then,” she said softly. “I take it you'd rather do it now.”

She pushed to her feet and moved her chair opposite of him, sitting down so that their knees were only inches apart. She could feel him tense when she reached for his hands, gently collecting them into hers. There was a moment of silence between them.

“This will be easier if you close your eyes,” she told him. “Try to relax. I promise you I won't go in places you don't want me to.”

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a lopsided smile.

“I expected no less.”

Her expression softened. “Just close your eyes.”

He complied and Triss watched his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. The tension eased visibly from his shoulders and she felt his hands relax in hers.

“Take your time,” she continued softly. “Go back to the chapel. Show me her face.”

Triss let her eyes slip closed and extended her senses. Reached out. The first thing she felt was a warm swirl of energy, a vortex of life that was _him_ and she let its torrent pull her towards his center. She sensed the corrupted strings of chaos that laced him, fibers of black magic that connected to the core of his mind like strings to a puppet. Felt the sharp, hot pain of the stab wound in his side like it was her own. Bruised ribs. The puckering slash across his palm.

She felt the guilt of having taken the life of an innocent, the shock of having lost control completely. The fear that it might happen again.

She felt the desperate trust he placed in her to make it all go away. The gratefulness to a woman who had come at his request, when he didn't know any way out. Whom he trusted instinctively because he knew her to be kind.

Something inside her stirred at the insight but she had learned to quiet her emotions if need be. This was neither the place nor the time.

 _Show me._ She projected the thought into his mind, gently shifting his attention to the task at hand.

_Show me her face._

Sunlight streamed onto her face, blinded her, and she had to shield her eyes to make out the landscape that stretched out before her. Wind-swept fields under a too blue sky, bright like a fever dream. Thatched cottages grouped together, a sandy road curving up the hill. The silhouette of a chapel in the distance.

The chapel up close. White paint crumbling from its wooden facade. She bent her neck to gaze up to a raven perching on its roof, ruffling its feathers, moving to glance down at her.

A flash of an entirely different place. The ice-cold presence of a specter advancing, eyes glowing bright white. Her hands curled around the hilt of a sword slashing across its chest.

The image of a young man hitting the floor of a tavern. Blood spurting. Brown eyes staring in shock before rolling up in his head. Guilt clutching at her throat, choking her.

_Focus, Geralt. Show me her face._

The scenery changed back to the image of a chapel, dark against the orange light of the setting sun. A wing door swinging open under her hands. A gust of cool, musty air from inside. Candlelight. An altar. A cloaked figure kneeling in prayer.

“The wraiths are dead. I'm here for my reward.” Geralt's voice, a deep rumble.

A small pouch handed over, coin weighing heavy in her hand. The scent of mold – acremonium and mucor – as she opened the pouch to count the coin, the metallic stench of pig's blood. She glanced up at the woman before her - eyes of steel in a narrow face, a straight nose, a pointed chin. Hair the color of sand tied back into a tight bun.

“Thank you for your services, master witcher.”

A voice that made her skin crawl because Triss remembered it. The grey-eyed woman smiled at her in recognition and all of a sudden, Triss realized that this was no memory anymore. This was real.

“Triss Merigold,” the woman crooned. “What a surprise. Messing with my work again, aren't you.”

Triss's eyes flew open and she let go of the witcher's hands, stumbling backwards and sending the chair to the floor. Geralt slowly raised his glance to look at her. The blank look in his eyes made her chest tighten with fear. This was not Geralt anymore - this was someone else.

“Geralt, snap out of it,” she ordered. “Wake up!”

She backed against the wall, raising her hands protectively as Geralt reached for the pitcher on the nightstand. She ducked just in time to hear it crash against the wall, exactly at the spot where her head had been a second ago.

“Stop it, Geralt!”

Panic made her voice shrill. She tried to think of a defensive spell but her head was completely empty except for an immediate, all-consuming fear for her life. She wasn't trained in combat like Vilgefortz, didn't have the reflexes needed to counteract a sudden assault. The witcher towered above her, mouth twisted into a snarl, grabbed her by the lapels of her dress and slammed her into the wall with a force that made her yelp in pain.

“Geralt, please...”

Hands pressed against her throat and choked her, turning her pleading into an incomprehensible wheeze. She clutched helplessly at his hands, tried to loosen his grip. Frantically stared into his eyes blind with rage, tasted his ragged breaths on her lips, and as darkness started to collect at the edge of her vision, she finally remembered. She shoved her hand flat onto his chest, fingers spread, and a burst of magic thrust him across the room and into the wardrobe. Wood burst from the impact and he slumped bonelessly to the floor.

Triss leaned against the wall on shaky legs, panting, holding her throat. When Geralt didn't move, she stumbled over to him, dropping to her knees next to his shoulder. Slowly she extended a hand to feel for a pulse, then turned his face towards her. He was out cold. The smear of blood under his head told her why.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of healing herbs and alcohol pulled Geralt from oblivion. Celandine and comfrey were most notable and mingled with valerian, poppy and a variety of others he could not put his finger on.

His brows contracted as awareness returned and injuries started to register in different amounts of discomfort. The cut in his hand seemed mostly healed, but there had been little progress to the wound in his side, which still throbbed painfully. Fresh pain along his ribs told him of newly formed bruises and his head hurt like it wanted to split apart. He reached up to examine the injury gingerly and was surprised to find it tended to.

The rustling of paper prompted him to turn his head and he knotted his brows.

“Triss.”

He realized with confusion that he was lying on his bed at the inn. The small table near the window was now a repository for a careful selection of vials and flasks, jars with powders and pastes that continued on the windowsills. A bag with books sat on the floor next to the table. The sorceress looked up from a manuscript when he spoke, putting a smile on her face which was not unlike the one he remembered from the time he had woken up at her laboratory after the striga fight. Only this time she seemed to have taken half her lab to his place. She must have sent for some of her things. He wondered how long he had been out.

“You're awake.” Her voice was tangled somewhere between worry and remorse. “I'm glad.”

“What happened?”

He attempted to sit up but thought better of it when the jostling of his head sent a ripple of pain down his neck and caused specks of fire to dance before his eyes. He groaned as he lay back against the pillows, a hand pressed against his throbbing skull.

Triss winced in sympathy. “I am really sorry about the concussion. I've worked a healing spell on you but it will need a while to take effect. You probably shouldn't sit up right now.”

Geralt took a deep breath, fighting down a sudden onslaught of nausea.

“How did it happen?”

“You don't remember?”

He stopped himself from shaking his head just in time.

“No.”

“Well,” she paused, taking a seat at his bedside, brows furrowed. “I'm afraid that was me. When you attacked, I had to defend myself.”

His gaze fell on the dark bruises around her throat. He swallowed as realization sunk in and reached out a hand to touch them, a frown on his face.

“I did this to you?” He mumbled.

She caught his hand in hers, guiding it back to the sheets. “It's not your fault. You weren't yourself.”

So it had happened again. He was relieved that he hadn't killed her or hurt her worse. Didn't know how he would have lived with himself if he had. Still, the realization that he had injured her made his chest tighten. The same helpless fear that he had felt after the fight in the tavern. After he had killed that young man.

“I'm sorry.”

It was heartfelt. Triss had been trying to help him. This was not the reward she deserved.

“I'm fine,” she assured him. “Mind reading can be dangerous if under a curse like this. She must have been inside your head when I was trying to read your memories.”

He tried to recall what had happened but the throbbing pain behind his temples made it hard to focus. The image of a broken pitcher came back to him as if from a bad dream, Triss's fluttering pulse under his fingers as his hands tightened around her throat. He tried to shake the memory, appalled. Ashamed.

Then he remembered why he had allowed Triss into his thoughts.

“Did it work?” Geralt tried to moisten his lips and swallowed again. His throat was awfully dry. He felt as if he hadn't had a drink in ages. “Did you get the information you needed?”

Triss nodded solemnly.

“You don't seem to be too happy about it,” he remarked.

She sighed.

“I know her, Geralt. And she knows me.”

He shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position and winced when his injuries made themselves noticeable. Triss had gotten him pretty good, he had to grant her that.

“Doesn't that make things easier? Who is she?”

“Her name is Celaena. She's an acquaintance from Aretuza.”

“So she's a mage.”

“Well, she does have the gift,” she confirmed. “But she was expelled after her obsession with the dark arts became a problem. She was unscrupulous to a degree that even scared some of the teachers. I mean, she _experimented_ on her fellow students. The school council decided that continuing to teach her was too dangerous.” Triss smiled humorlessly. “Lots of us had second thoughts about her being merely expelled after everything she had already learned. Some even wished back the old days when unsuitable students were turned into eels. She probably had someone on the council protecting her from a similar fate.”

Geralt gave her a sharp look. He had heard rumors about Aretuza and the idea of a practice like that fit right in with the stories he'd heard. What bothered him was how casually she mentioned it.

“What happened to her?”

Triss shrugged. “I really don't know. I've never heard of her again.”

“Well, at least we know who we're looking for.”

He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself upright and waved off Triss, who leaned in to help. He reclined against the headrest with a soft moan, closing his eyes, and when he opened them again, he realized that she had poured him some water. He accepted the cup gratefully and took a long sip.

“You look pale as a sheet,” she stated dryly.

He huffed, raising his eyebrows.

“My natural complexion.”

She smiled slightly but her eyes were warm with sympathy.

“Do you need anything to help with the pain?”

He let out a sigh, then gestured towards his bag which he suspected was still on the floor next to his bed. The way the room was spinning, he didn't dare to tilt his head to have a look.

“Give me the vial with the red liquid. There should be one left.”

Triss knelt down and started to ransack his bag for the requested item. It wasn't hard to find. She uncorked it for him and he downed it in one gulp before letting his head sink against the headrest again. He felt decidedly unwell but told himself that the dizziness would pass.

“Healing potion?” she asked.

“Hmm.”

“Well, while you're waiting for it to take effect, I might as well inform you about the progress I've made.”

He curiously opened one eye to glance at her.

“You managed to track – what's her name?”

“Celaena,” she prompted. “Well, no. That will need some preparation at my workplace, but I've been through some books, trying to find a way to deal with the curse. As I already told you, the spell cannot be broken. Not without the mage who cast it. But I think I have found a way to allow you to maintain some control.”

That sounded like a start. He gazed at her from hooded eyes trying to ignore the painful throbbing behind his temples.

“How?”

“Do you know what a focus is?”

He nodded slightly and regretted the motion at once.

“It's commonly used to aid students during meditation practice,” Triss explained unnecessarily. “Makes it easier to calm your mind, harness your impulses. I've taken my old one and latched a second spell onto it.”

He heard her get up and retrieve something from the table. When she returned, she held up an amulet for him to see. It was a simple silver disk with a rune engraved in its center. Its design was plain but the magic caused his witcher medallion to tremble on his chest. She pressed it into his hand and his fingers closed around it.

“It won't keep her out of your head, mind you,” she explained. “But you'll notice her being there trying to take control. With a little practice, you will be able to put up some resistance, even stop yourself from executing her command altogether.”

She smiled hopefully and he reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. He hadn't thought it possible but somehow he felt even worse than before. The pain behind his temples became increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I know it's not what you've been hoping for. But maybe it'll help.”

He pressed a shaking hand to his head, sucking in a sharp breath as the pain spiked again. Blood roared in his ears and suddenly he feared he was going to be sick.

“You should lie down again.” Triss's voice, concerned.

He started to shake his head, raised a hand to fend her off and instantly realized that it was too late. Moaning, he rolled onto his side as nausea hit him like a fist. Triss snatched the bowl from the nightstand just in time. Her arm wrapped around his shoulder, steadied him as he retched violently, emptying the contents of his stomach into the container. He grimaced when the movement strained his bruised ribs and rekindled the pain in his side.

“There goes your healing potion,” she commented with a sigh.

He groaned, paused and vomited again. The hand on his back moved to hold the long hair from his face. He briefly closed his eyes, panting, dizzy and suddenly feeling very sick.

For a long moment he didn't move, unsure whether his stomach had settled, then ran a shaky hand over his face.

“Done?”

He nodded weakly and the bowl disappeared from his vision.

“Come on. You should lie down.”

Her hand cradled his head as she aided him back onto the pillows.

“Triss...”

“No. Be still now. And don't move your head.”

She didn't have to tell him twice. He really had no desire to repeat that. His hand returned to his head in a futile attempt to ease the mercilessly throbbing pain and he squeezed his eyes shut. He had the vague impression that Triss was moving about the room, heard the clink of glass on glass. Oil being poured. The mattress moved when she resumed her place by his side and his eyes slid open once more.

A blurred Triss leaned above him, a cup in her hand.

“This will help with the nausea and the pain,” she said softly. “Don't sit up. I'll help you.”

Her hand slid behind head as she raised the cup to his lips.

“Slowly,” she cautioned.

The bitter taste almost made his stomach churn again and he had to take small sips, but miraculously the mixture stayed down. When he had finished all and his head rested against the pillows again, he closed his eyes, utterly exhausted. He really hoped that the medicine would work quickly.

Between the pain and the dizziness, he felt a gentle touch on his forehead, a mist of magic trickling over him. The medallion around his neck vibrated softly.

“What are you…?”

“Shush. I'm putting you in a healing sleep. Don't fight it. You'll feel better when you wake up.”

As if he had the strength to fight. He let go with a sigh and tried to relax. Allowed himself to be wrapped in the numbing warmth that floated over his battered body and into his mind, and ever so gently pulled the doors of perception shut. He felt a woolen blanket being pulled up to his shoulders. Felt her hand gently brush along his jawline in a surprisingly intimate gesture, but he was too tired to hold on to that thought. Then there was nothing more.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

When Geralt awoke, Triss was gone. Early morning light crept into the dim bedroom and he lay unmoving for a while, waiting for the remains of the magically induced sleep to fade away. He was groggy, but beyond that he felt surprisingly well. His headache had decreased into a slight discomfort barely worth mentioning and it stayed like that even when he pushed himself up a little to lean back against the headrest. His hand seemed better too. Gingerly he removed the bandage and found the cut completely healed. The scar was barely visible.

The wound on his side seemed to be a different matter though. It had been troublesome to begin with and it was still painful, if maybe a little less than before. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed to inspect it and tightened his lips when he found his suspicion confirmed. Even though the injury had finally scabbed over, there was still some swelling and it was warm to the touch. He knew from experience that puncture wounds to the abdomen could take longer to heal but he had hoped that Triss's healing magic would do the trick. Well, there was a little improvement at least. He would have to move more carefully for the next couple of days. He applied some salve from his supplies and redressed the wound, then reached for his shirt.

Only now he took the time to look around the room and he noticed that the remains of the wardrobe were still there, wood splintered and cracked. It clearly was beyond repair. He made a mental note to pay the innkeeper for the damage.

The small table by the window looked tidy now. Triss's collection of flasks and jars had been replaced by three similar vials with contents of the same color. Medicine, he assumed. The letter next to them would probably instruct him on when to take it.

Geralt noted that the washing bowl had been cleaned and put back in its old place on the nightstand. Beside it lay the amulet and he reached to run his finger along the engraved rune, then slipped it over his head. First, he didn't notice any difference except for a trembling of his medallion, but when he closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, his thoughts faded almost by themselves, like clouds blown from the sky, until all that was left was a brilliant blue. For the first time, he could sense the extent of the spell that laced his mind, detected the strings of chaos and where they had hooked into him. His eyes snapped open in surprise. This was more powerful than he had hoped. Maybe, just maybe Triss was right and he would stand a chance against his captor.

He got to his feet and opened the window, allowed some air in. The street was already busy with carts and pedestrians, and the noise was almost as overwhelming as the smell. Every place in Vizima smelled to some degree of smoke, animals and excrements, but it was especially true for this part of the city. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, scraps of conversations wafted up. A barker from the nearby market advertised his fruit. From his room on the second floor, Geralt had a fairly nice view and his gaze traveled across the rooftops to the harbor in the distance. The water looked like molten gold in the light of the rising sun.

He yawned, stretched his abused muscles and then attended to the note from the table. He found his first instinct to be right. Three vials, medicine for three days. Pain relief and a magical agent that would accelerate his body's healing response. It would ensure that the effects of the healing sleep lasted. He was to drink one every morning before breakfast.

It wasn't the first time he relied on the healing potions of another and he trusted Triss in this matter. Magic wafted up as he uncorked a vial and sniffed it, grimacing at the foul smell. He drained it in one go. It tasted bitter, like woundwort and some kind of mold, but he was used to worse, which included most of the potions he made for himself. Nevertheless, he rinsed the bad aftertaste away with a mouthful of water before sitting down to read the rest of her letter.

_...I have returned to my laboratory to try and locate Celaena. It might take a while, if it works at all. Until then, I advise you to take it easy and rest as much as you can. Get yourself acquainted with the focus I made for you and meditate._ _Right n_ _ow, it's your best bet. I'll let you know as soon as I have something new._

_All the best,_

_Triss_

Meditation sounded alright, but he'd want to wash up before that and answer a call of nature. After that, a warm meal was in order. After all, this place served good food, and he was hungry.

He frowned as agitated voices drifted up from the street below and looked out of the window to check what was going on. Two city guards stood in front of the building, talking to a chunky man with an apron who emphasized his words with expansive gestures. The innkeeper, Geralt realized. It seemed like he wanted to convince the guards of something.

“It's him, I'm telling you.”

“Are you sure?” the older guard inquired. His beard was streaked with gray and he was apparently in command. His comrade looked a lot younger, sixteen at the most. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as if he looked forward to using it.

“Of course I'm sure!” The innkeeper looked over his shoulder as if he expected a monster to turn up behind him every moment. He lowered his voice as he noticed that some bypassers were turning their heads. “My cousin Rendrick owns the tavern where it happened. Saw it with his own eyes! That bastard slew poor Barnabas like a dog, in front of his best friends.”

“So you didn't see it yourself.” The guard seemed doubtful. “How can you be so sure it's really him?”

The innkeeper leaned in closer. “Because he was wearing a witcher medallion. And there aren't so many white-haired witchers around.”

Geralt had heard enough. He stepped away from the window and grabbed the vials from the table, tossing them into his bag along with Triss's letter. Worked on his boots, all the while keeping an ear out for the conversation in the street below, which seemed to be coming to an ending. He was just reaching for his swords when he heard the front door, and a brief glance out of the window confirmed his suspicion. They were on his way up to him.

Of course, he could fight two armed men and an overweight innkeeper, even with the barely healed wound in his side, but he'd rather not. Resisting law enforcers was rarely a good idea. Right now he wasn't their top priority, but if he hurt one of the city guards or, god forbid, killed one, every guard in Vizima would be looking for him. Not to mention the damage it would do to the reputation of his trade.

He grabbed his swords, threw his bag across his shoulder and was just out of the door when he saw the younger guard appear at the end of the hallway.

“I got him!”

He charged at Geralt who turned and ran. The witcher made it down the hallway and around a corner as footsteps followed close behind him. He reached a passage that lead to a balcony, found the door unlocked and fled outside, cursing his bad luck as he didn't see any stairs leading down. There was no tree to help his descent either. He'd have to jump. He hesitated for merely a second but it was enough for the guard to catch up.

Behind him, Geralt heard the scraping sound of a sword being drawn and whipped around, hand raised to form the sign Aard. A blast of magic ripped from his outstretched fingers and thrust the man back inside and a fair way into the corridor, where he lost his balance and splayed to the ground. The older guard appeared around the corner, stepped past his stunned comrade, sword at the ready.

Geralt stood frozen. Something whispered in the back of his head, and before he knew what was happening, all conscious thought was gone. It felt like he had been pushed into a dark well, light simmering far above him, as he watched himself pick up his steel sword and step back into the hallway, charging at his opponent who managed to parry the attack just in time. _Not again_ , he thought desperately. _Not now_.

 _With a little practice, you'll be able to put up some resistance_ , Triss had said. Unfortunately he hadn't had the time to practice. The panic he felt right now didn't help either. Like a captive rattling his cage, he vainly strained against the spell. All he could do was watch helplessly, as he backed the guard into a corner with a rapid succession of powerful strokes, forcing him into the defensive. He disarmed him with a violent blow to the wrist and rammed the sword into his throat. Blood spurted as the guard made a gurgling sound, slid down the wall and gave out. Somewhere down the corridor, the innkeeper screamed.

 _Meditate_. He remembered the words from Triss's letter. _Get yourself acquainted with the device._

He watched himself swirl around, sword raised against the young guard who had managed to get back to his feet and was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and shock. He couldn't have been in a lot of fights before. Geralt's sword came down on him and the young man barely managed to block the attack, swaying under the impact of the strike.

 _Meditate_. He didn't even know if meditation was possible while being controlled. At least, this time he realized what was going on. He wasn't able to take a deep breath, didn't even have that much command over his body, but he knew how to calm his mind. Knew how to stop the surging panic and racing thoughts. He just had to focus and let go.

And he let go.

All conscious thought vanished as the ripples eased on the lake of his mind, and like before, he started to sense the cords of chaos that tied him. Each step he made, each strike had them tremble in accordance as he fulfilled his master's wishes, and slowly he began to understand. He felt them quake as his hands gripped his sword tighter to block a counter attack, felt the gentle tug as he unarmed his opponent. He could sense the direction where the impulse originated from and wrapped his mind around that cord, holding it still.

His sword tangled above the head of the young man on the ground, ready to fall. However, he didn't execute the strike. The guard looked at him, eyes wide.

“Run,” Geralt ground out hoarsely, shaking from the effort.

Sweat started to collect on his forehead as he held the position, and the young guard scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on Geralt. The guard's face wore an expression of shock and disbelief, and he hesitated for a split second. Then he turned tail and ran.

Geralt didn't know how long he stood like this, sword poised, the slain guard slumped behind him and the wails of the terrified innkeeper echoing down the hallway. It might have been just a few seconds but it felt like an eternity. He felt the voice in the back of his mind become impatient, felt the gentle tugging on the cords of chaos turn into a yanking, the whisper turn into yelling. It took all he had to stop himself from listening to that voice, to focus, but he knew now what to do and resisted.

Then, the voice was gone.

Slowly, he let his sword sink, letting out a shaky breath, unbelieving. He had won. Kind of.

His hands trembled as he sheathed his weapon, winced as he bent down and picked up his bag. He didn't have to look to know that the wound in his side was bleeding again. The guard's head had sunken to the side and he looked at Geralt with empty eyes, mouth slightly open, his throat smeared in glistening red. Blood still pooled on the floor beneath him. Geralt tightened his lips and felt sudden hatred for the mage who had done this to him. He would not only make her pay. He would make sure that she never laid hand on anyone else again.

He crouched down before the guard and brushed a hand over his eyelids to close them.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. He briefly laid a hand on the dead man's shoulder, then pushed to his feet.

The wails of the innkeeper had softened a bit, but he was clearly shaken to the bone, staring at the witcher with wide eyes. When Geralt approached, the man pressed himself flat against the wall to let the witcher pass. The latter reached into his bag and retrieved a small leather pouch, which he dropped into the bewildered man's hands.

“The wardrobe in my room needs to be replaced. I hope this is enough.”

He didn't wait for a reply. It wouldn't take long until someone called the authorities on this and Geralt needed to find a new place to hole up. There was no way to break the spell from inside a prison cell. He left the inn through the front door, ignoring the stares of the people and trying very much not to hate himself.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Triss instantly recognized the man waiting in front of her laboratory as an officer of the city guard. His face wasn't familiar, but he wore the gray uniform of Foltest's men and the ornate bronze breastplate and matching sword hilt gave him away as a man in command. As she approached, his cold, intelligent eyes settled on her and she realized with slight discomfort that this was no man to be taken lightly.

“Captain Vesten,” he introduced himself. “I apologize for the inconvenience but I need to speak with you.”

Triss politely inclined her head. She rarely had business with the guards, except for the cases when her skills as a healer were requested, but he wouldn't have waited for her in a drafty hallway if this was just about a wounded soldier. This had to be about something more serious, something he couldn't have sent a messenger for. Her shoulders stiffened in apprehension.

“Of course,” she replied guardedly. “I hope you didn't have to wait too long. Please, come in.”

She unlocked the door to her workplace and the captain followed suit.

Her laboratory, a set of adjacent rooms connected by arched passages, was dark except for a corner near the entrance where sunlight slanted through an overgrown window, casting a bright rectangle onto the worn floor. Triss left her visitor waiting there while she moved about the place, lighting candles and a small oil lamp on a table. Hands folded behind his back, the captain regarded her from watchful eyes, then turned to scan the place, noting the complex chalk drawing on the floor, burnt down candles placed alongside its circular outline, and the mess of parchments, books and vials on the tables.

“Seems like I have interrupted some important work,” he commented.

Triss dismissed the observation with a shrug. She had spent the longer part of the night preparing the elaborate ritual that would hopefully allow her to locate the woman who had cursed Geralt, but hadn't gotten around to begin the ritual itself. After tending to the princess during the morning hours – Foltest had put her in charge of her after the curse had been lifted – and an extended meeting of the royal council, she had hoped to finally begin the search for Celaena, but she didn't see why she should explain that to Vesten. The less people knew about this, the better.

She cleared some manuscripts from a small table in a corner and gestured at a chair while sitting down herself. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep.

“I'll get back to it eventually. Please, have a seat.”

Vesten settled into the chair opposite of her, taking in her disheveled appearance with a look that was almost disdainful. Triss made a conscious effort to straighten her back and pushed a strand of curly hair from her face.

“So,” she began wearily. “You said this was important. What can I do for you?”

He folded his hands on the table. It was a slow, controlled movement, not unlike a wizard summoning his powers. The candlelight reflected on the bronze surface of his armor and glinted in his colorless eyes.

“I am investigating the death of one of my guardsmen, who died at the hands of a white-haired witcher that you are acquainted with. Geralt of Rivia.”

Suddenly her mouth felt dry. This was bad news. Bad for Geralt as much as for herself, since the authorities obviously had already made the connection. It could only have happened recently, she was sure that Geralt would have told her otherwise.

“When did it happen?” she asked uneasily.

“A couple of hours ago.” Although Vesten must have caught her reaction, his face remained expressionless.

“You were seen visiting him at the inn,” he continued. “Could you tell me what that was about?”

“Well,” she began, then hesitated. She wondered how much he knew already, what the people at the inn had told him. Tried to judge if that information would make her a witness, or worse, the confidante of a murderer. She wasn't even sure what the captain thought of witchers. There were lots of people who were prejudiced against them and Vesten wouldn't be the first officer with that particular flaw.

She decided that it was safest to tell him as little as possible.

“He needed my help as a sorceress,” she said.

“Could you be more precise?”

Triss shook her head. “That's confidential.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do you know where he is?”

“If he's not at the inn anymore, no. I'm sorry.”

“You think he'll contact you?”

“I don't know,” she said irritably, her uneasiness growing into alarm. “Listen, would you care telling me what exactly happened?”

Vesten leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest, assessing her.

“Well, there really isn't much to tell. Two of my men went to the inn this morning to arrest him. He escaped and killed one of my men on the way.”

“Arrest him for what?”

She already knew the answer to that question but she felt like she had to ask. Didn't want him to think that she was knowingly protecting an outlaw.

“He killed a man in a bar fight in a village not far from here.”

“Did your guard attack him?”

“Hard to say who started the fight. Why? Are you suggesting he acted in self-defense?”

She tightened her lips. Actually, that was what she hoped had happened. Another possibility was that Geralt had killed the guard under the influence of the curse. Considering his regard for the life of innocents as well as his sword skills – she doubted that he would kill anyone by accident – she found the latter more likely. Which meant that the focus she had made for him hadn't been much help, that he was out there somewhere, defenseless against the mental assault, controlled by a blood-thirsty mage with all of Vizima's city guard on his tail.

The insight came with a pang of contrition, the shameful realization that she could have prevented this if she had acted differently. Court mage or no, she should have changed her order of priorities, neglected her duties this one time and checked back on him before he even woke up. Shouldn't have left him alone in the first place. She could have taken him with her, invited him to stay at her lab where she could have kept an eye on him. He might even have agreed to her locking him up until the curse was lifted. It really had been a stupid risk to take.

Vesten noticed the shadow flitting across her face and leaned forward.

“Forgive me for being blunt,” he said, and there was barely concealed curiosity in his voice. “But how do you know the witcher?”

Triss looked up, wary of the change in his voice.

“He's a friend,” she said carefully.

“A good friend?”

“We've worked together and I've come to trust him. He has been of great service to the king and the royal family.”

Vesten raised his eyebrows.

“I suspect that again you can't give me any details.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Triss shook her head. Officially, Lord Ostrit had sacrificed himself to rid Temeria of a vukudlak. She could impossibly disclose what had really happened, not even to save a friend. It would destroy Foltest's reputation and destabilize Temeria politically. “But let me tell you this much: Geralt is a good man. Selfless in a way that is rarely found in men who live by the sword. He is not the coldblooded murderer you think him to be.”

He didn't believe her, she could see it in his eyes.

“I know what you want to say,” she added emphatically, “but things are not what they seem to be. You'll have to take my word for it. He is not guilty of what he is accused of.”

“So neither did he kill the alderman's son in the bar fight, nor the guard at the inn.”

“No, he _did_ kill them. What I'm saying is, it's not his fault. He...” she was looking for the right words, something that wouldn't reveal the whole extent of the problem. Something that would keep Vesten from simply ordering his men to put Geralt down like a rabid dog. “He wasn't himself.”

Vesten gave her a long, thoughtful look.

“You're in love with him, aren't you?”

Triss stared at him, dumbfounded at the sheer insolence of the remark and surprised at the same time how much it stung. Maybe she did have feelings for Geralt, but even if that was the case, Vesten had no right to call her out on it. She was the court mage and was to be treated with a certain respect, even by a captain of the guard. On his face, she saw the patronizing look that she had so often suffered from older men at the royal court who regarded her as little more than a pretty girl with healing magic. It made her incredibly angry.

“Don't deny it,” he went on calmly. “I can see it in your eyes. You went to the inn for a rendezvous, didn't you? You knew him from before, you said so yourself. You've worked together and he impressed you. And when you learned he was back in town, you went to see him.”

“No,” she objected, voice rough with emotion, though she could see his reasoning. “You're wrong.”

“Really? You're putting in quite some effort to defend him.”

“I told you, he's not himself right now.”

“And how is that?”

She stared at him not knowing how to respond and finally looked away. With dismay, she realized that the conversation had come to a point where her options were limited. She had already given away that Geralt hadn't acted on his own free will and she couldn't think of a way to explain the situation without disclosing more details.

However, she really didn't want to put Geralt's life at stake. There was no telling how Vesten would react should he learn the full truth. What if he decided that a cursed witcher was too great a risk for the people of Vizima? What if he decided to simply have him shot on sight? On the other hand, wouldn't Geralt face the gallows anyway, being wanted for murder in two cases?

She felt his gaze weigh on her and realized that her continued silence didn't do her any favors. If she wanted to convince him to side with her, she'd have to say something now.

With a small exhale of breath, she reached up to the scarf around her neck that hid the bruises she had suffered at Geralt's hand, tugging at the garment to reveal the dark marks on her skin.

His brows twitched in surprise.

“Was that him?”

“Yes. He attacked me and I had to defend myself.”

“That explains the broken closet,” he said thoughtfully. “I've assumed that there was someone else, but that was you, wasn't it? You knocked him out in self-defense. And you're sure his assault was unintentional?”

“Yes, I'm sure. It's why he sent for me in the first place.”

He looked at her doubtfully, let that information sink in. “So he's what? Possessed?”

“Yes, kind of. He's bound by a curse.”

“Have you tried to lift the curse?”

Triss bit her lip. “I wasn't able to,” she admitted. “But I'm working on it. I'll have to find the mage who did this to him.”

“Hm.” Vesten nodded to himself, pondering what had just been said. Triss looked at him hopefully, trying to read his face. If he decided that she was telling the truth, he might agree to work together on this. With the city guard on her side, it would be a lot easier to find Geralt or to move against Celaena. If she could convince him to go after the person who was really responsible.

“Well, unfortunately, that doesn't change things in the slightest.”

“Why?” Triss stared at him disbelievingly. “I've just told you that he's innocent!”

“Maybe you're right.” Vesten pushed to his feet, tugging at his sleeves as he prepared to leave. “But that's not for me to decide. The fact remains that he has killed two men and is a threat to the people.”

The reserved distance in his eyes was back. With dismay, Triss realized that Vesten's concern wasn't about the witcher. This was about keeping the city safe and she felt with certainty that he would do everything to get his job done.

She stood, not willing to give up yet.

“What are you going to do?”

“What is necessary. I am an officer of the city guard and servant of Vizima and its people.” He regarded her impassively, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “As are you. Moreover, you have just told me that you failed to lift the curse, which means that there's a professional killer on the streets who is out of control. Regardless of your feelings for the witcher, I expect you to inform me if you learn of his whereabouts. It might well save a lot of lives.”

“What about _his_ life?”

“What about it?”

There it was. The glint of hatred that bespoke prejudice, the indifference whether the witcher made it or not.

“Will you order your men not to kill him?”

“Well,” he retorted, apparently annoyed by her concern. “I will tell them to protect themselves. I'm not willing to lose any more good men for the sake of a mutant.”

Triss locked her jaw, glaring at him. She felt like screaming at him, wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake some sense into him, but she knew that it would be no use. His mind was set. Worse, part of her understood why he was reacting this way. Vesten's reaction reminded her of the so-called heroes who had tried to slay the striga when the creature could have been saved. Geralt had been different, but Vesten didn't know that and she couldn't tell him. It just felt unfair that the man who had put his life on the line to save the cursed princess didn't get the same compassion in return.

“I'll leave you to your work now,” Vesten said. It concluded the conversation.

“Will you at least let me know when your men find him? I might be able to help.”

“Frankly, I don't see why I should. My men will be perfectly able to deal with this, and you have already proven to be biased towards him.”

He left at that, not even glancing back once.

Triss remained in the doorway for quite some time, lips pressed into a tight line, feeling defeated. Some part of her insisted that she could have done more, could have gotten through to him if she had tried harder, but when she thought about it, she realized that it was only wishful thinking. She had tried everything she could. Maybe she shouldn't have told him about the curse but she didn't really have any choice. Hopefully, Geralt had snapped out of it and tried to contact her. In the meantime, she would keep her promise and start her search for Celaena. It really was the smartest thing to do.

Back in her laboratory, her gaze flitted over her desk and the disorganized mess of books and parchments, the collection of flasks and vials she had meant to store away already. Tidying up was a task that soothed the mind, and she needed to cool down before she could get to work. Maybe it was a good idea to simply get her hands busy. She let out a deep sigh, straightened her back and got to it. Sorted through her handwritten notes, some of which she tossed into the fireplace to be burnt later. Put _The Wizard's Guide to Enchantments_ and the _Encyclopedia Magica_ back onto the shelves. Dusted off the flasks and test tubes and lined them up on her worktable.

She wondered if she really should start to look for Celaena first. Maybe it would be a better idea to start looking for Geralt. If she wanted to help him, she had to find out where he was. The ritual was prepared and it didn't make a difference whose image she summoned, it would work either way.

She didn't know how long she had been rummaging around the room, but it couldn't have been longer than a half hour, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

The door was pulled open and an errand girl entered. Triss was familiar with most of the girls who worked at the castle but she had never seen this one before. She was no older than ten, blond hair braided neatly and looked at her from uncertain, large eyes, extending a small parcel in her tiny hands.

“What is this?”

Frowning in confusion, Triss took the parcel from her hands. It was something soft wrapped in a colorless cloth, laced with a piece of string.

“It's the herbs you sent for,” the girl replied.

“I didn't send for any herbs.”

The girl cast a quick glance to the open door, then shifted her eyes back, gazing at her intently. “Of course you did. That will be ten Orens, please.”

It was then that Triss realized that there was something amiss. She gazed at the small package in her hands, then back again at the young girl in her plain clothes who was looking at her pleadingly, and then it clicked.

“The herbs,” she repeated loudly. “I almost forgot. Thank you, that was about time.”

She retrieved some coins from the drawer of her desk and paid the girl, who curtsied and thanked her politely before rushing out. The door fell shut and the heavy sound of booted feet retreating down the corridor alongside the light steps of the girl confirmed Triss's suspicion. There had been someone waiting in front of the open door. Considering the situation, probably one of Vesten's men.

She sank into the chair by her desk and thoughtfully turned the parcel in hand, loosened the string, unfolded the cloth. The smell of lavender and calendine filled the room at once. Fresh herbs, just as the girl had said. They were tied together in small bundles of maybe ten plants each, and she held up a bunch against her nose, breathing in the spicy fragrance. They were fresh and of good quality, probably had been purchased at the herbalist's near the temple district. She started to examine the rest of the herbs and discovered a small piece of parchment hidden at the bottom of the parcel.

Heart pounding, she unfolded it and recognized the handwriting at once. They were the sharp-edged, precise letters she knew to be Geralt's. Even though it was only three sentences, her eyes closed in relief.

_I had to find a new place to stay. The city guards are after me now. Meet me at the statue of Melitele after nightfall._

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The paved square in front of the Temple of Melitele lay deserted under the night sky. Nestled between the high buildings, it was completely covered in shadow except for the random places where the edge of a cobblestone caught the light of the waning moon. The darkness made it easy to approach or leave the sanctuary unseen, except of course, if you had a witcher's senses.

From his hiding place on an opposing rooftop, Geralt had a good look over the place. Pale hair hidden beneath his hood, he had held out there for hours, watching the streets empty with the lengthening shadows and windows brighten one after the other. With the fading sunlight, the air had begun to cool and he shivered slightly under his woolen cloak, drawing it closer around his shoulders without averting his eyes from the streets below.

He hadn't dared waiting in the temple itself despite the comfort of warmth and light it would have provided. He couldn't be sure if his message to Triss had been intercepted, couldn't know whether she would come alone. After what had happened at the inn this morning, the streets had been crawling with guards, patrols having tripled at least, and he would have bet his sword that someone had talked to the witnesses at the inn already, who were sure to remember Triss visiting him. It was why he had gone through the trouble of hiring an errand girl to get at least a chance of reaching out to her without drawing too much attention.

Approaching footsteps echoed in the street below, but Geralt knew by their heavy sound and the lantern's bobbing light that it was merely another patrol – the third one in the past half hour. Muffled voices wafted up to him, shreds of conversation followed by distorted laughter, and then two guards came into view, crossing the square in slow strides and disappearing into the shaded alley beyond.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a familiar whisper took shape, trying to take control as it had countless times today, and he closed his eyes in an effort to silence it. Trembling from the effort, he steeled himself against the attack, felt the strings of chaos cut into the fabric of his mind as he struggled to force the intruder from his thoughts. Not today, he told himself. Not tonight.

Finally, the whisper died down and he let out a shaky breath. Something had to be done about this soon or he would break, focus or no. He really hoped that Triss had been successful.

Somewhere from a dark alley behind him, he heard footsteps approaching, light and fast, but lacking the stealth of a burglar or hunter. No beam of light gave the traveler away. He didn't doubt for a second that it was Triss, following his invitation to meet him tonight. Out of habit, he made a conscious effort to listen for any other signs of life, noticed some infant crying behind a closed window, the lazy flutter of pigeons on a nearby rooftop, the almost silent descent of a bat starting its nightly hunt, but couldn't identify any threat. She hadn't been followed. They were safe.

He watched her pull open the heavy, tarnished door of the sanctuary, candlelight reflecting off the cobblestones for a moment before they were swallowed by shadows again. He waited for another heartbeat, then slid down the roof like a cat, gliding into the street below. The wound in his side protested as his feet made contact with the pavement, the impact rippling through his body like a wave, and he gritted his teeth. It was no concern, he told himself. He would heal in time, should be glad that his headache was gone at least. Right now, he had to focus on the task at hand.

Incensed warmth embraced him as he entered the temple. Above him, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness, the light of the torches against the walls unable to reach the farthest corners of the room. Melitele was the great mother goddess, loving and dependable, and as such her home was open day and night, providing comfort to those who needed her. Geralt knew that he only had to call out and one of the sisters would show, offering spiritual guidance or help as a healer. In lack of a hospital, the sick and wounded of Vizima turned here, as well as women in labor. He didn't believe in the gods, but he felt that if Melitele existed after all, she wouldn't have minded him seeking refuge in her house tonight.

Her statue was in the back of the building in a secluded apse, surrounded by narrow leaded windows. The thick walls would make sure the conversation didn't carry, and a surprise visitor wouldn't be able to spot them from the doorway. When it came to a secret meeting place, it was as safe as it could get. Still, he felt his back tense in apprehension as he stepped through the archway, wary of what he might find.

The sorceress sat with her back to him gazing at the marble statue at the center of the room, her gray traveling cloak flowing around her like water. Melitele's sculpture stood on a pedestal illuminated by countless candles. Her finely chiseled face bore an expression of loving acceptance and she spread her white marble hands in a welcoming gesture towards the spectator below. At her feet lay a branch of lavender, an offering, it seemed, by the sorceress.

“Triss.”

His voice was low, barely above a whisper, and it echoed strangely in the enclosed space. She turned around at the sound of her name and gave him a smile that spelled surprise and relief in equal parts.

“Geralt. I'm glad you're okay.”

His lips curled into a half smile. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”

“Of course I'd come. I promised.”

He settled onto the bench next to her and pulled down his hood, gazing into her face. She wore the same green dress he remembered from the first time he met her, the same golden earrings. In the warm light of the candles, her curls looked like dark bronze.

“I appreciate it. After what happened this morning, I was worried you'd rather keep your distance. You've probably heard that I killed a guard.”

She must have spotted the self-reproach in his voice because her brows furrowed in sympathy.

“Yes, I know,” she said softly. “A captain of the city guard came to talk to me about it. He wanted to know where to find you.”

That didn't come as a surprise.

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I didn't know where you were. I'm glad you thought of a clever way to contact me though, because he put one of his men in front of my door to watch me. Seems like I'm under surveillance now.”

“I'm sorry, Triss. I didn't mean to...”

“It's okay,” she interrupted him gently. “I just had to answer some questions, that's all. I put a sleeping spell on the guard to leave unnoticed.”

“How long until he wakes up?”

“An hour at least. I'll be fine.”

He hoped so. He really didn't want to get Triss in any more trouble than he already had. As of now, he deeply regretted dragging her into this. This could damage her reputation, endanger her position at the royal court, or worse.

“Don't worry about it.” She must have sensed what was going on his head. “I'll be fine.”

She looked at him reassuringly and he averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. She turned to face the statue again, following his gaze. In the flickering candlelight, Melitele's face seemed almost alive. They shared a moment in silence.

“Why this place?” She asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The temple of the mother goddess. Patroness of love and peace. I understand why we couldn't have met at a tavern. But wouldn't some dark back alley have been the more obvious choice?”

He smiled at the suggestion, raising his eyebrows as he shook his head.

“Dark back alleys aren't exactly safe. There's a lot of lowlifes who meet in that sort of place.”

“Oh my goodness. You really are worried about me.”

He looked at her, expression serious.

“Yes.”

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Still, I don't like to take unnecessary risks.”

“Hm.” She let the information sink in. “Does that mean you don't want my company when you move on Celaena?”

“No,” he said softly. “I do want your company. I need you to lift this curse. Actually, I don't think I have a chance of fighting this alone. But I don't want to put you in danger if it can be avoided.”

He felt her gaze rest on him and wondered what she saw. He felt bone tired, exhausted both mentally and physically, and he doubted that the semi-darkness concealed it.

“How are you holding up?”

“I think we have to do something soon,” he said plainly. “It's exhausting to fight her. She doesn't give up easily.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Well, in that case we'd better move quickly. I really hope you're feeling up to taking her on.”

It sounded like she had made some progress. He looked at her hopefully.

“You were able to locate her?”

“Yes. She's got a hideout not far from Vizima. It's...”

She stopped herself, brows furrowed, tilted her head as if she was listening to something. Then he felt it too. The medallion trembled against his chest, a soft humming that was building into a strong buzz. Triss jumped to her feet and he grabbed her arm to hold her back, then stood and unsheathed his steel sword, eyes focused on the possible threat that might appear in the archway at any moment. He extended a long arm towards her, indicating her to stay behind him, and slid into the main hall.

“F***.”

Blinding light spilled from a tear in space that was opening half way across the main hall, air folding around a glaring gap of light. He squinted against the brightness, hand raised instinctively to shade his eyes, and saw two silhouettes emerge from that portal, one lithe and slender, the other one rather tall and massive.

He sensed Triss move but didn't dare to turn his eyes from the intruders, nerves taut as adrenaline kicked in. His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, all weariness and lingering pain suddenly invalid. Once more he found truth in Vesemir's words – no matter how tired you are, you can always fight.

The portal disappeared and the piercing light with it. It took mere seconds for Geralt's eyes to adjust and he recognized the features of the smaller figure instantly.

“Celaena.”

The muscular man who had arrived with her was unfamiliar. He wore light leather armor, black hair cropped short. Geralt noted the long sword at his belt, recognized the balanced stance of a trained fighter. Their eyes met across the room and the man drew his weapon, but stopped his advance as Celaena raised her hand. Geralt wondered if he too was under her spell.

“Look what we have here.” Her frosty voice made him shiver. “I expected to find you here, witcher. But Triss? That's a pleasant surprise.”

Triss stepped forward, eyes hard and unflinching. “Why are you here?” she demanded sharply.

“I've come to find out what you've done to my witcher. Things have gone quite smoothly until you interfered.”

The blond sorceress started to saunter towards her, leisurely, but Geralt had the impression that the calmness was just a facade. There was a glint in her eyes, a tautness in her shoulders that spoke of fury.

Triss's eyes narrowed. “He's not your property.”

“I beg to differ.”

Magic sizzled across Triss's fingers and Geralt took that as his cue to attack. He leapt forward, sword poised to strike but was brought to his knees before he could even come close, the all-too-familiar presence in his consciousness suddenly yanking at the reins that harnessed his mind. He gasped at the shock, for a terrifyingly long moment unable to rise. At the edge of his vision, magical light exploded and he heard distorted laughter. Celaena, his muddled brain provided. Triss's attack must have missed her.

“Take care of him,” he heard her sharp order. “But don't kill him. I need him alive.”

Desperately, he struggled to regain control and let out a guttural growl as he forced the presence from his mind, regaining his footing just in time to block a strike that was aimed at his head to knock him out. The surprise on the face of his opponent lasted only for a split second, then the man swung his sword again, this time aiming at his shoulder. Geralt dodged the blow and retreated, putting some distance between himself and the man and hurled a blast of Aard at him. The blow carried the taller man off his feet and Geralt leapt towards him, sword raised.

Magic exploded to his left as Geralt brought his sword down on his opponent, who managed to roll from under the strike just in time. The witcher's sword hit the stone floor with a metallic clank.

Again, he felt the voice whisper in his head, softer this time, maybe because Celaena was occupied by her fight with Triss. Still, it was enough to distract him for a crucial second and pain tore through his right arm as the blade of his opponent's sword found its mark, drawing blood.

“Melitele, have grace on us!”

Great, he thought. The noise of the fight had woken one of the sisters. He parried the next blow, grimacing at the pain, and withdrew, putting some distance between himself and the man. From the corner of his eyes he glimpsed a pale, young woman in the doorway behind him. Blood ran down his arm and smeared the hilt of his sword.

“Get out of here!” He yelled, eyes locked on his opponent. “And bar the door!”

The last thing he needed was an innocent bystander getting hurt. He heard the door slam shut just when the man surged forward, sword swinging. Geralt dodged the attack and repositioned himself, watching his opponent circling him. Another flash of magic flickered along his line of vision, followed by a sharp scream he identified as Celaena's, and from one moment to the other, the whisper in his mind was gone.

It brought a knew clarity to the fight, and suddenly Geralt found that it wasn't hard to anticipate the other man's moves. The man was trained, yes, and he was skilled, but he didn't have the decades of fighting experience Geralt had, didn't move with the same instinctive precision.

When the man attacked again, Geralt sidestepped him easily, and after parrying two more blows, he spotted a weakness in his defense. Geralt advanced and made short work of him. His sword went in deep and the man fell to his knees, eyes wide with shock and pain. Geralt pulled out the blade and the man collapsed in a heap. Somewhere to his right he heard Triss yelp, and he realized with sudden alarm that it had been a while since he had seen the last burst of magic. Geralt swung around.

At the far end of the room, Celaena held Triss before her like a shield. Her hand was buried in the sorceress's dark curls, yanking her head back as her other hand pressed the glinting blade of a knife against her throat.

“Don't move, witcher,” she hissed. “Or your little friend here is dead.”

He froze on the spot, the blood in his veins suddenly turned to ice. Celaena's eyes were wild, and her singed robes and tousled hair made her look like personified fury. He didn't doubt for a heartbeat that she would carry out her threat. Triss looked deadly pale, twisting in a futile attempt to escape the sharp steel that nicked the skin under her jawline. He could smell the remains of dimeritium in the air.

“I'm sorry, Geralt,” she croaked, eyes wide with terror.

The sight made him tremble in helpless rage.

“What do you want?” he addressed Celaena.

Triss swayed on her feet, an effect of the dimeritium, Geralt suspected, and would have collapsed if it hadn't been for the fist in her hair.

“I want you, witcher,” Celaena spat. “What little spell did that witch cast on you that helps you resist me?”

“Don't tell her.” Triss pleaded with him.

She gasped as her head was yanked backward again.

Mind racing, Geralt considered his options and found they were terribly sparse. From where he was standing, he couldn't attack, there was simply too much distance between them. Celaena was smart enough to keep Triss between him and her, using her as a human shield, so the use of magic was out of the question too. Maybe he could bargain with her. Or lie.

“If I tell you, will you let her go?”

Celaena's lips twitched, obviously enjoying having the upper hand. “Of course.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it seems you don't have much of a choice. Because I sure as hell am going to finish her off if you don't tell me what's going on.”

She changed the angle of the knife and a line of red appeared, stark against the pallor of Triss's skin. Triss pressed her eyes shut, lips trembling as a sob escaped her lips. A single drop of red ran down the blade and dropped to the floor.

“Stop it!” His voice was hoarse.

Celaena would kill her if he didn't comply. The madness in her eyes made that very clear.

He didn't have a choice.

He had to give in.

“She gave me an amulet,” he said, mouth suddenly dry. His hand trailed to the pendant hidden under his shirt and he pulled it out for her to see. “It helps me focus.”

She squinted, trying to make out the engraving in the dim light. For a moment he thought she would doubt his answer but she nodded curtly, apparently satisfied.

“Take it off.”

“You promised to let her go.”

She gave him a devilish smile and for a moment he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a priestess. There was nothing good about that woman, nothing gentle or wise. She was a monster to the core of her heart.

“I will. After you take off that amulet.”

“How do I know that you'll keep your word?”

“Well,” her smile broadened. “You'll just have to trust me.”

His eyes wandered to Triss's face and he saw the terror etched into her lines, saw the beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, the dark bruises at her throat next to the shallow cut of the knife. His eyes met hers and he saw her pleading with him not to do it, but he couldn't just let her die. This was a gamble that he had to take.

Hands shaking, he sheathed his word and reached up to the leather string that tied the amulet around his neck. He paused.

There were voices outside the temple and a moment later, the door flew open and several uniformed men marched in. The city guard, he realized. The sisters of Melitele must have sent for help. Given that the whole fight couldn't have lasted more than a couple of minutes, the guard's response time was rather impressive. On the other hand, he pondered, there had been lots of patrols today.

Part of him wanted to run, make for the back entrance that led into the temple garden and make his escape, but that might well be Triss's undoing. So he stayed, feet rooted to the ground, and watched Celaena's face lose color as the guards took position around them in a wide circle.

“Don't come closer,” Celaena shouted, “Or I'll kill her.”

The guards didn't move, neither did Geralt. He noticed that most of them had their swords drawn, one or two having a crossbow at the ready. They didn't dare to shoot though, not as long as Triss was between them and Celaena. Their eyes were locked on the knife that pressed against Triss's throat. It didn't take much to sever the carotid artery, a little pressure on the blade and it would all end in crimson misery. It would take merely a second, and a second was too short to try anything. There was nothing they could do.

For long moments there was nothing but silence and Triss's panicked breathing sounded unnaturally loud. Then Celaena repositioned, trapping Triss between her body and the blade, and let go of her hair to extend a hand. The witcher medallion jerked on its chain, and Geralt realized what she was doing even before he saw the air fold beneath her fingers, silver light swirling from the portal that formed before her.

“This is not over,” she told him, voice dry and cold like coming death. Then she pulled Triss with her into the blinding light.

The moment the portal vanished, the guards closed in around him and Geralt raised his hands in surrender. Witcher reflexes or no, there were too many of them and the bolt of a crossbow would kill him at that short range. Not that his life was worth much, with the curse and all, but he felt responsible for what had happened to Triss, and he couldn't save her if he was dead.

One of the guards stepped closer and took his swords while another one ordered him to hold out his hands. They were chained behind his back.

He knew that they would be mad at him for killing one of their own, knew that they would let it out on him, so the beating didn't come as a surprise. What surprised him though, was that they didn't wait until they had taken him in and carried it out right there on the spot, in the temple of the mother goddess. He took the punishment stoically, almost welcoming the physical pain that momentarily drowned the hatred he felt for himself. They took turns, driving their fists into his stomach and striking him across the face, pulling him up again when he doubled over. Somewhere between the blows, he was aware that the young woman from before had returned, watching the scene from a distance, wide-eyed, her hand pressed against her mouth.

A random blow hit the barely healed wound in his side and he cried out in pain, knees buckling as agony took his senses. Whoever had dealt the blow must have taken pleasure in his reaction, because he was kicked in the same spot again. He curled into himself as pain exploded in his side, a shockwave that tore through his bruised body like fire, drowning his consciousness in a red haze. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, and when the foot slammed into him another time, he passed out.


	6. Chapter 6

The oak door was locked and barred. Triss had tried the handle several times, vainly, rattling it with all her might, but it became clear that it wouldn't give way. This desolate room would be her prison whether she liked it or not.

Even in the sparse light of the moon she could see that it must have been a pretty bedchamber once. Pale rectangular shapes on the floorboards marked the spots where once a bed and a wardrobe had stood and along the walls there were similar telltale shapes, speaking of framed pictures that must have hung there, possibly even a mirror. With the fireplace lit, it must have been a comfortable place to spend the night. But the fireplace was dark and cold now, providing no comfort against the chill that seeped in through the broken window. Her sole comfort were a straw mattress, a threadbare blanket and a bucket. The air smelled of mold and mice droppings.

Triss checked the window next, but quickly discarded it as a way of escape. The building had four stories, the chamber being directly under its roof and the wall was too smooth for climbing. The view was spectacular though, even at nighttime, allowing the eye to travel over miles and miles of forest to the distant mountains that had to be the border to Aedern. Triss didn't doubt for a second that this was indeed the isolated tower she had glimpsed in her visions when trying to locate Celaena.

Wrapping her cloak around her against the cold, Triss sank onto the hard mattress, her fingers trailing up to the sturdy, metal collar that had been fastened around her neck. She traced its hinges and lock, then reached up with both her hands to see if she could pry it open and sighed in frustration when it held fast. She was painfully aware of the dimeritium in the alloy, its mere touch sickening, slowing her mind and depriving her of her magical powers. As long as she wore this bloody thing, she wouldn't be able to cast a spell of any kind, couldn't even sense the magic around her. It was like she had been blinded, a complete world having been taken from her.

She fidgeted with the collar for quite some time and finally gave up, reaching for her sash to stuff it in between the metal and her neck. It would do nothing in terms of restoring her magic, but at least it would protect the fresh cut on her throat against the metal that constantly chafed at her skin.

Leaning back against the wall, she wondered how Geralt had fared. The last moments before she had been dragged through the portal were hazy, their memory distorted by all-consuming panic. Only a few images had remained, brief impressions that were disconnected but overwhelmingly vivid. The cruel grasp of a hand in her hair, the cold touch of a blade at her throat. Voices raw with emotion.

She didn't recall the exact words, but she remembered the expression on Geralt's face. The sight had burnt itself into her mind. The look of a wounded animal backed into a corner, frightened, desperate, and utterly helpless. The insight that he would have taken off his amulet to save her, that he would have risked his life to save hers, still shook her to the core. Part of her had been glad that the guards had arrived just in time to stop him. Maybe he still stood a chance to save himself. Maybe he would even come for her.

However, she didn't want to get her hopes up. Even if he had managed to avoid arrest and somehow managed to find out where to look for her – and she was painfully aware that she had failed to give him any details about Celaena's hideout – he was still suffering from the effects of the curse. Even with the amulet to aid him, it would be a challenge to resist Celaena's constant attempts to subdue him. And his resolve was wearing thin, he had told her himself.

As far as help was concerned, the city guards would probably be a better bet. There had been quite a few witnesses to her abduction, and being Foltest's court mage, a lot of people knew her face. But they too wouldn't know where to start looking. If only she could find a way to reach out to them.

The dull sound of hooves on sand pulled her from her thoughts and she stepped up to the window to find out what was going on. Leaning out, she spied a dark figure riding towards the building. He dismounted, tied his horse to a tree and disappeared from her view.

A visitor in the middle of the night? Glancing down the exterior wall, she saw light shine from the window directly below hers, so Celaena was still awake. Seemed like the guest didn't come unexpected. Her curiosity piqued, Triss remained at the window, straining her ears, and sure enough a few moments later the soft rise of talk wafted up to her. Though they were keeping their voices low, the sound carried through the shattered windows and Triss could effortlessly discern what was being said.

“You're late.”

Celaena's voice. She sounded tired.

“Sorry about that,” a gravelly male voice answered. “I ran into some trouble on my way back.”

“Nothing serious I hope?”

There was a brief silence in which the man probably made some kind of gesture. Triss suspected that he had just shaken his head.

“Did you deliver the message?”

“Hmm.”

“Well, what does he say?”

“Well, his excellency was disappointed, to say the least. Not that I expected any different. But I managed to convince him that we'll be able to uphold our part of the deal. However, he will only stay in town for three more days and expects the witcher to be delivered by then.”

Triss frowned, trying to make sense of what was being said. Up till now she had assumed that Celaena wanted Geralt for herself, as some sort of assassin or bodyguard. It had never occurred to her that she might want to procure a witcher for somebody else. This meant that Celaena couldn't have bound Geralt to herself but must have built some kind of artifact, something that could be handed over. Something that could possibly be used by someone without magical abilities. Triss remembered the drawing that Geralt had shown her at the inn, the odd changes to the runes. That certainly explained it.

“Okay, that's good news,” Celaena sighed, apparently relieved. “I think we can manage that.”

Footfalls tapped across the floorboards, followed by the soft clink of glass touching glass and the sound of a liquid being poured.

“Erveluce,” she declared. “Want some too?”

“No, thanks. Water is fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

There was a short silence and chairs were being moved. Wood creaked as somebody sat down. Triss could hear someone poke the fire and instinctively pulled her cloak tighter around her. It was uncomfortably cold.

“So what about the witcher?” The man asked. “Have you made any progress?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“But he's not here?”

“No. The room upstairs is taken though.” There was a meaningful pause, probably a questioning glance from the man's side. “Triss Merigold.”

“Foltest's mage? Are you out of your mind?”

“Don't shit yourself. Nobody knows where we are, and this way, I can keep her from interfering any further. By now I'm actually quite sick of her screwing with my work. Besides, she might become useful. The witcher likes her.”

“But she knows people. Aren't you worried that she might get back at us after everything is over?”

“I mean to take precautions. You know what I can do. I'll wipe her mind before I send her back, might even implant a false memory. Nobody will ever find out what really happened.”

“And what if that fails?” The man pressed on. “She's a sorceress after all. She might have some tricks up her sleeve.”

Celaena scoffed.

“Well, we can always get rid of her.”

“You mean kill her? For f***'s sake, Celaena, she's not just some mutant nobody cares about. People will come looking for her!”

“Calm down. I know what I'm doing.”

“Apparently not, since the witcher isn't here.”

“He will be. Trust me. I've just found out what Merigold did to mess with my spell. All I have to do now is find out where he is hiding and remove the fricking amulet.”

“So if it's that easy, why don't you do it now?”

“Because I'm exhausted, that's why,” Celaena snapped angrily. “In the last hours, I've opened two portals, battled a mage and I 've used up the last of my power to put the dimeritium collar around her neck.”

“Why didn't Mikal do that for you?”

Celaena fell silent. Triss had never heard the name before, but she suspected that the man in question was the swordsman who had been supposed to capture Geralt. Triss had no recollection of what exactly had happened - she had been tied up in her own fight at that moment - but she was fairly sure that Geralt had killed him.

Celaena's answer confirmed her suspicion.

“Because he didn't make it.”

“Shit.”

She sighed. “Yeah, shit.”

Bitterness and unconcealed hatred resonated in her words. Triss was a little surprised at the insight that despite Celaena's selfishness and disregard for the rights of others, there were apparently some people she did care about.

“I'm sorry.” Celaena said after a while. “I know you were friends.”

They were silent for a while.

“I guess the risk comes with our line of work,” the man finally said.

“Hmm.”

“You know what, I think I changed my mind about that drink.”

“Sure. Would you like some wine? I also have Redanian Herbal if that's more to your liking.”

“Yeah, why not.”

Triss heard somebody stand up and the floorboards creaked loudly under heavy footfalls. Among the rummaging, she discerned a cupboard being opened, a chair drawn across the floor. A bottle was uncorked.

When the man spoke again, his voice was rough from the liquor.

“It's a shame, really. Mikal was a good friend. Good fighter too.” He sounded genuinely sad. “How did it happen?”

Celaena told him then. How she had caught a glimpse of the witcher's environment in the brief moments she could overcome his resistance. How she had found him watching the temple of Melitele and realized that it was a good time to strike. She had been surprised when Triss had attacked her. Things had gone downhill from there on.

“Now I see why you brought her with you,” he commented. “She really is a pain in the neck. You were lucky to have the dimeritium dust with you.”

“Actually, that was meant for the witcher. He has quite a repertoire when it comes to combat magic, and this time I didn't want to take any risks.”

The man let out a long breath.

“So, about the witcher. Do you know where to start looking?”

“I'll find him,” came the soft reply. “First thing in the morning. It'll probably be easier than last time to get into his mind. I can sense that his resolve is waning. Another look through his eyes and I'll know where he is hiding.”

“Do you want me to come with you to get him?”

“Maybe. I'll think about it. Thing is, I also need someone to keep an eye on Merigold. She might not be able to work magic, but she might still try to escape.”

The man huffed a laugh. “Without her magic, she's just an ordinary woman. Don't worry about her.”

“As I said, I'll think about it.”

Their conversation drifted on to other things then, revolving around people Triss didn't know, and Triss realized that the two of them must have known each other for quite some time. They were comfortable with each other, and if not friends, they were certainly well acquainted. With the increasing intake of booze, their voices grew louder and they shared memories of past heists, but they didn't talk about anything important again. After a long while, they wished each other good night and the window below turned dark.

Triss stiffly scrambled to her feet too. She remained at the window for a while, and when it became clear that nothing would happen anymore, she slumped onto the mattress, weary, cold, and very much afraid. She had never been held prisoner before, had never been at the complete mercy of others. The prospect of possibly dying at their hands scared her to the bone.

As she crawled under the thin blanket, resting her head awkwardly on her arms because of the collar, her thoughts trailed back to Geralt. By the gods, she hoped that he was doing okay. Was it possible that he had escaped the guards? It didn't seem likely. He was just one man, and he'd been surrounded. On the other hand, he had been able to fight a striga for a complete night, and what were a couple of guards in comparison to a striga?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to catch a clear thought but found herself unable to. Her body demanded rest but her mind was going in circles.

What if Geralt had been arrested? Would he be able to escape? Maybe Vesten would remember what she had told him, maybe he could be bargained with. But she doubted it. No, she thought. Geralt wouldn't come to save her. She would have to find a way to get out of this mess herself.

She let out a shuddering breath and pressed her hand against her temples, trying to think of something she could do. But no matter how hard she tried, there was nothing she could think of. Nothing at all.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've had a version of this chapter uploaded about two weeks ago, but I was really unhappy with it. Took me a while to rewrite it, but I guess I'm okay with it now. Sorry for the delay.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone for their encouraging comments. It means the world to me :-)

Cold water splashed into Geralt's face, bringing him around like a swift punch. He groaned, disoriented for long moments, every inch of his body hurting. Upon a careful breath, he felt the bruising along his torso, the protest of cracked ribs and the red agony of the maltreated wound in his side. A painful heat radiated from the injury, deep and molten, a sure sign of infection.

Memory of the previous night returned then. He vividly remembered the beating he had suffered, especially the last part that had ultimately taken his senses. The deliberate kicks must have opened the scabbed wound again, grinding mud, dirt, and whatnot into the open injury. The way it hurt, it needed immediate treatment.

Biting back another groan, he struggled to rise and found that his arms didn't respond. He realized that they were in fact supporting the weight of his limp body, his manacles connecting to a pair of hooks in the ceiling. He grimaced as he tried to get his feet under him to ease the strain on his arms and finally succeeded, panting from the effort.

“Ah, look who's awake now.”

The voice brought his attention to a man who stood before him, staring at him from small, mean eyes. In his hand, he held the empty bucket that presumably had contained the water that was now dripping off Geralt's face and shoulders. The uniform gave him away as a city guard.

Geralt glanced past him, noting the thick iron bars of the door, the rotting straw that covered the dirt floor, and concluded that he had been moved to the jail while unconscious. The small cell had to be underground, dampness gleaming on the walls where the bricks caught the torchlight from the corridor. His gaze settled back on the guard in front of him.

“What do you want?” he ground out. His face felt tender and swollen and it hurt to speak. “Come to beat me up again?”

The guard looked amused.

“Captain sent me down here to check on you. See if you're fit to talk.”

By the way they had chained him, he could have guessed. It didn't come as a surprise. After all, the abduction of the court mage was nothing to be taken lightly and he was probably their only lead. He had just hoped that they would choose a more humane way to get the information they needed.

“Took you some time to come around again,” the guard continued. “Captain was starting to get worried, said we might have gone too hard on you.” He stepped closer and grabbed Geralt by his chin, turning his face to have a better look at him. Geralt could smell onions and booze on his breath. “Tell me, witcher. Have we gone too hard on you?”

Geralt glared wearily at him, knowing only too well that his answer wouldn't make any difference. The guard looked exactly like the kind of man who took pleasure in beating other people up, and a hated witcher was probably a more than welcome target.

“F*** you,” he rasped.

“That's what I thought.”

Geralt caught the metal gleam of brass knuckles before the punch hit him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, and he bit down to stifle the cry of pain that wanted out. He was already sore from last night's beating, his muscles bruised deeply, and he could feel something tear inside him under the concentrated force of the blow. Fresh pain flared through his center, blinding him for long moments, but he managed to stay on his feet. He counted that as a small victory.

“Thought you might want a second round.”

Another blow landed in Geralt's midsection, worse than the first, setting his insides on fire and forcing a pained groan from his lips. Two more punches and his legs buckled. He grunted when his fall was caught abruptly by the chains and he retched weakly, spitting blood and bile onto the floor. He gazed at the mess before him, feeling curiously detached. Internal bleeding, his dazed mind assessed automatically. Might make the consumption of healing potions impossible. Not that he had any right now.

He closed his eyes, panting and dizzy from the pain. Son of a whore, he thought grimly. I hope you rot in hell.

“You've had enough already?” A voice sneered from far away. “Thought you witchers were tougher than that.”

He could have stayed down then, pretending to have passed out. Hell, he wasn't far from it anyway, really just had to allow the pain to pull him under, but he remembered something that the guard had said before. That the captain wanted to talk to him, and his brain was still working well enough to realize that he couldn't let that chance go by. Not that he expected any help for himself, but he had to make sure that the guards knew where to look for Triss. She was in trouble because of him. He owed it to her.

It took him long moments to gather his strength, but he managed to get to his feet again. Slowly he raised his head, glaring at his tormentor with defiance.

“I'd like to talk to your captain.”

“I bet you do.” the guard retorted, baring his teeth. His fist was clenched tightly, ready to deal another punch. “But don't make any mistake. He doesn't give a shit about the state you're in, as long as you can talk.”

The man lunged to strike but froze in mid-movement when a sharp voice resounded from behind him.

“Enough.”

The guard snarled in disappointment and turned around to look at the uniformed man who had just entered. Geralt noted the man's carefully trimmed hair and beard and the ornate breastplate that was reserved for commanding officers.

“Captain Vesten,” he acknowledged.

The captain's eyes narrowed.

“The prisoner is awake now,” the guard declared somewhat belatedly.

Vesten glanced at Geralt who was still struggling to keep upright, then back at his inferior. His frown deepened.

“I can see that for myself,” he said. “You were supposed to report back immediately. I thought I had made myself clear.”

The guard bared his teeth and for a moment Geralt thought that he would retort sharply. But he seemed to remember who was in charge just in time.

“Yes sir,” he replied grudgingly. “I'm sorry, sir.”

Vesten jerked his head toward the door. “Out.”

The guard shot Geralt a dark glance that told him that this wasn't over yet. He would be back and maybe even bring his friends. Geralt tried not to ponder on it as he watched him leave.

Vesten approached the witcher, giving him a cool once over, hands folded behind his back. He glanced at the vomit that soaked the straw at Geralt's feet, then looked up at him again, studying his bruised and bloodied face. There was no telling whether he enjoyed the sight though, his expression completely blank. Geralt got the impression that this man was strictly business.

“Looks like my men roughed you up pretty good,” Vesten said at length. “I would apologize for their misbehavior, only that I understand quite well why they're so upset with you. You've killed one of their own, and Casey was a good man. Quite popular. Left a wife and four children behind. Just in case you want to know.”

Geralt had his doubts that the latest beating had had anything to do with that but kept the thought to himself. Vesten wasn't here to discuss the behavior of his men, he wanted information on the killings and Triss's abduction, and Geralt was more than willing to help with that.

“I'm sorry about your man.” Geralt's voice was hoarse. “It wasn't my intention to kill him.”

“Yes, I've heard. The curse.”

There was only one person who could have told him that.

“You have talked to Triss.”

“I have talked to quite a number of people,” Vesten replied coldly. “Just so you know, up until now Miss Merigold has been the only person to speak on your behalf and now she's disappeared. Things don't look too good for you, witcher.”

Despite his discomfort, Geralt managed a grim smile. “I already figured that.”

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that put a little less strain on his bruised muscles and grimaced when the movement caused him pain.

Vesten didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

“I'm going to be blunt,” the captain said levelly. “I don't care what happens to you. Considering the many witnesses, you'll probably hang by the end of the day and I wouldn't lose a night's sleep over it. But I do care about Miss Merigold and it appears to me that you should care about her too. And if only because she might save you from execution.”

Geralt sighed.

“You don't have to convince me to help you. What do you want to know?”

Vesten eyed him suspiciously, surprised by his easy compliance.

“Well, I'm glad that you're sensible,” he said slowly. “Let's start with the blond mage then. Who is she?”

Geralt found himself swaying and locked his knees, gripping the chains that held him. He was still light-headed from the pain and had a hard time keeping his legs under him.

“Her name is Celaena. She's the one who cursed me.”

“You know her?”

Geralt shook his head.

“No, but Triss does. Otherwise I wouldn't even know her name.”

Vesten nodded, taking in the information.

“Alright. So this curse – how does that work exactly? It makes you do whatever the sorceress tells you?”

“Basically, yes. But Triss gave me an amulet to help withstand it.” Geralt tried to take a careful, deep breath against the dizziness but was stopped by his aching ribs. He suspected that he was losing blood, probably bleeding into his abdominal cavity, the recent blows to his stomach having caused serious damage. Thanks to his slow pulse, it would take a while though until he passed out. Time enough to get through this and maybe convince Vesten to unchain him, so he could get some rest.

“Is that why she was abducted?”

Geralt nodded wearily. “And to be used as leverage, I think. Celaena wants me to give up the amulet so she can gain complete control over me.”

Vesten's brows creased in thought.

“Will she continue to come after you?”

“You mean will she try to break me out?”

The thought hadn't occurred to him, but it wasn't far-fetched. In fact, it might even be likely. The mage had gone through a lot of trouble so far and Geralt didn't deem it likely that she would give up now. She had the means to do it too. Maybe she was even watching him right now, eavesdropping on the conversation. After all, she had been able to surprise him at the temple of Melitele, so she had to have some way of spying on him.

She couldn't simply portal into his cell, he was pretty sure of that. Based on what he knew about portals, it became trickier the smaller the place was you wanted to portal into, unless you wanted to risk ending up inside a wall. So she would have to come up with some other plan to get him out. But she might do exactly that.

It suddenly dawned on him that ironically she was currently his best hope of escape.

“Yes,” Geralt said after a moment of silence. “She might.”

And she might succeed to take him with her, except of course, she was stopped by the guards. Right now Vesten's men stood a better chance of overpowering her than Geralt, and they would be able to help Triss.

Vesten nodded to himself, processing the information. “Well, in that case I'd better take precautions.”

There was another thing the captain could try, in case Celaena didn't show up.

“You could also try to find her,” Geralt suggested weakly.

Vesten raised his brows expectantly. “Well, do you have any idea where she is?”

Geralt shook his head. He realized he was reeling, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He tried to take a deeper breath but was again met with a searing pain in his ribs.

“Not exactly, no. But she's got a hideout somewhere near Vizima.”

“That's not very specific.”

“It's all I know. Maybe your men will be able to find it if they ask around. Someone might remember seeing her.”

Vesten nodded thoughtfully. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then stopped himself, frowning.

“There's one thing I don't quite understand,” he said after a while, looking at Geralt who was pale as death, trying hard not to pass out. “You're a witcher, you know more about curses than most. After killing the alderman's son at that tavern, you must have realized what was going on. That someone was controlling you and might have you kill again. Yet you didn't turn to the authorities. Instead, you rented a room in Vizima, hoping for the help of Miss Merigold, all the while risking the lives of everyone in the city.”

“Well,” Geralt huffed, suddenly annoyed by the man's ignorance. Considering the widespread prejudice against his kind, the guards obviously hadn't been an option. “I'm talking to the authorities now, aren't I? Look where it got me.”

The crease between Vesten's brows deepened and with it, the hard line around his mouth returned.

“Still, the least you could have done is stay out of the city. Keep away from other people as long as you had no control over yourself. But you didn't.” He paused, his glance icy. “The way I see it, Casey's death is on you, whether it was your intention or not.”

He knew the captain expected a reply, but there was nothing he could think of to defend himself. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was mere exhaustion, but his mind felt curiously blank, as if swiped empty and the captain's face started to slowly slide out of focus.

Vesten finally shook his head in contempt.

“Well, I guess we're finished here.”

It was the last thing Geralt remembered before his legs gave out and he sagged, his fall once more brought to an abrupt halt by his chains. Not even able to lift his head, he gazed at the filthy straw beneath him and watched it blur. In his semi-conscious state, he barely registered the movement around him, voices drowned by the roaring in his ears. Then the chains that held him disconnected and his body hit the ground with a painful thud.

For a long while, there was only darkness.

He woke to the distant sound of voices, and through the haze of pain and fever, a pungent smell registered, scratchy and sooty. Fire, his dazed mind provided. The building was on fire. It took a moment until the danger of the situation fully sank in but when it did, his eyes flew open.

He was still in his cell, lying on his belly, his cheek pressed into the straw. Vomit soaked the ground near his mouth.

And f***, he hurt.

Why was the building on fire? He clung to that thought as if to a lifeline, sensing that the answer to that question was vital, and then a name appeared in his mind. Celaena. She must have started the fire to lure out the guards. Which meant she was coming for him. He wondered if Vesten's men would be able to stop her, but he didn't count on it.

Groaning, he tried to push up but found that his body was not in agreement. Moving brought on a whole new experience of pain, nauseating and debilitating. He fell back with a soft moan, panting from exhaustion.

F***.

Setting his jaw, he attempted to rise again and somehow managed to get to his knees at least, his whole body shaking from the effort. The witcher medallion twitched on its chain. She was coming.

What now? He turned his head toward the steel door of his cell and saw that it was locked but unguarded. So much for the precautions that Vesten had wanted to take. Seemed like he had to face Celaena by himself. Trouble was, he wasn't in any condition to fight her. But if he didn't think of something now, she would just march in, rip the amulet from his neck – his last line of defense – and break his will for good. And the idea of spending his remaining days in complete slavery scared the hell out of him.

Again, he heard the clamor of voices, closer this time, somewhere from the other end of the corridor. The sound of a sword fight. Someone screaming in pain.

He couldn't defeat her, neither mentally nor physically, he knew that. But what if he could trick her? What if he could convince her that he had somehow lost the amulet, that the guards had taken it along with his swords? He might be able to pretend to be under her spell, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

It wasn't much of a plan, but it sure was worth a shot.

Hands shaking from blood loss and exhaustion, he removed the amulet from his neck and hesitated briefly, trying to think of a good place to hide it, then simply slipped it into the shaft of his boot. He was about to take off his witcher medallion too but then thought better of it. She would definitely be able to sense the magic on him, and it might be a good idea to present an obvious source of magic in order to keep her from looking for the amulet.

Footfalls tapped in the corridor, approaching his cell. He could hear the jingle of keys, the voice of another inmate begging to be released, and then the blond mage stepped into view. She looked a little worse for the wear, clothes singed from last night's fight, but it was obvious that the guards hadn't been able to harm her. Geralt wasn't surprised to find an armed man in her tow, hair blond like hers, but cropped short for battle. In his hand he was holding a broadsword, its blade glistening with fresh blood.

“Well, well,” she said as she caught sight of him. “Look who's here. I told you it would be easy.”

The last words were directed at her companion, who merely grunted in response. She held out her hand and he passed her a set of keys. It didn't take long for her to find the correct one and the barred door swung open with a low screech.

Geralt sat up as straight as his battered body would allow, mentally preparing for her to take over his mind, and raised his eyes to meet her glance. This time, he would consciously allow it. He hated the prospect but right now, it seemed like the smartest thing to do.

“Looks like you have been expecting me,” she stated, approaching him. She seized him up, impassively taking in his various injuries.

“I have.”

He felt her gaze drop to the witcher medallion on his chest, noted the slight crease between her curved brows as she realized that the focus wasn't there, and he instinctively knew that she wouldn't believe his act. He'd have to sell it.

And there was only one way he knew how. He had put up so much resistance until now that it would be suspicious if he succumbed to her willingly. He would have to fight.

His attack was almost painfully slow, the gesture that usually took him split seconds now imprecise and shaky, but the thrust of magic that burst from his fingers was still powerful enough to throw the sorceress backwards, sending her into her companion. The man tumbled and almost went down with her. She shrieked in surprise and Geralt climbed to his feet, labored, face contorted into a grimace of determination.

“You fool,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Do you still think you can resist me?”

She stretched out her arm to keep the blond man from advancing on him and Geralt caught a soft gleam of magic streaming from her hand, the ring on her finger glowing with chaos. He was but able to take one step towards her before he felt her thoughts float his mind like a storm tide, and this time, against the cold panic that clutched his heart, he let it happen.

Maybe she wouldn't notice.

Maybe she wouldn't be able to see that he was trying to deceive her.

He gasped, vision graying as his consciousness drowned in a vortex of chaos. For a brief moment he feared that this would be his end, that this might be the last conscious glimpse he would catch of the world, and then even that thought faded. He knew nothing after that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just realized that it's been almost a month since my last update. Sorry for that - sometimes real life gets in the way! But I'm glad to finally be able to spend some quality time with Geralt again. Again, thank you all for your supporting comments. It is great to hear what you think :-)

The tower rooms looked bleak in the gray light of mid-morning. Hours had passed since the departure of Celaena and her nameless companion, and Triss had spent most of the morning at the window, staring into the distance where the wooded hills were swallowed by the gray mist of falling rain.

The bowl with her meager breakfast was still on the floor, untouched, since she'd been too nervous to bring anything down. She knew that she was being foolish, starving herself when she needed all the energy she could get, but was unable to help it. Worry sat in her stomach like a rock, worry for Geralt who had to face that lunatic mage all alone and, the gods may forgive her, worry for herself. More than once she had tried to sit and meditate, calm her mind the way she had learned, but it had been useless. Fear invaded her thoughts the moment she closed her eyes, a frenzied voice that never seemed to stop screaming, and it would not quieten, no matter how hard she tried.

Eventually, she had given up trying. Gazing at the rain-swept trees did little to ease her mind, but it made the confinement in her close quarters easier to bear. Now that she was a prisoner herself, she wondered how Geralt had been able to take it - to be at the mercy of another, to be completely stripped of your freedom. He must have been terrified. But unlike herself, he had been able to push past his fears, had been able to focus enough to fight back.

She was nothing like him.

Her heart grew heavy at the realization and she bowed her head, trying hard not to think of her failure. In his desperation, he had asked for her help and she had let him down, underestimating their enemy when she should have known better. And now it was her who was in need of help, who was waiting to be rescued. One more problem to add to his list.

_He should have chosen his allies more wisely_ , she thought bitterly. _I only ended up making things worse._

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the windowsill, helpless anger and guilt twisting inside her. If only she could do something. Anything.

But all she could do was wait.

Finally, she heard the bolt slide back, a sound expected and feared at the same time. She turned, squaring her shoulders as Celaena strode in with an air of nonchalance, a small smile tugging at her thin lips. Dismayed, Triss watched as Geralt followed obediently in her wake. It wasn't just the blank look in his eyes that shook her, a sure sign that his mind was gone. It was the unspeakably miserable state he was in.

He staggered into the room, white as death, his face a mess of dried blood and countless cuts and bruises. The side of his shirt was dark with blood. She noticed the way his feet shuffled against the floor, his legs barely able to support his weight and though his face was slack and devoid of pain, it was obvious that physically he was past the point of endurance.

She took an instinctive step towards him, then stopped for fear he would attack her, eyes darting back and forth between him and the blond mage at the door. He slowed his pace, swaying dangerously, and Triss, unable to bear it any longer, begged, “For Melitele's sake, Celaena, let him go!”

Celaena's lips twitched slightly. “As you wish.”

He gasped sharply as if startled awake from a bad dream, eyes widening in shock before the expression of raw pain contorted his face. Tumbling, he extended a hand to brace himself against the wall, which was out of reach, and Triss broke from her paralysis, crossing the distance between them in a few strides and slung her arms around him to catch his fall. Unable to hold his weight, she merely slowed his collapse, sinking to the ground beside him.

“Geralt?”

She gently cupped his face and yellow, unfocused eyes settled in her direction. His lips moved to form a reply, but his voice failed him and he coughed instead. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and he squeezed his eyes closed.

Frantically, she pressed her fingers against his throat, finding a pulse that was weak and fast, too fast for a human and excessively fast for a witcher. His breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps. Again, he tried to speak but managed only a pained groan and she stroked a damp strand of hair from his face, then rested her hand against the side of his face.

“Be still,” she said softly, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “You'll be okay.”

Her eyes flew up to the blond mage who had positioned herself next to the open door.

“What have you done?” She whispered, voice taut with helpless anger. “Wasn't it enough to put a curse on him, you had to beat the living daylights out of him too?”

Celaena stood unmoving, arms folded in front of her chest, slight amusement shining in her flint-gray eyes.

“You think I did this to him? Don't be ridiculous. I merely got him out of trouble. You see, I have great interest in his well-being.”

“Right,” Triss scoffed. “Because you won't be able to sell him if he's unable to fight.”

Celaena raised her elegant brows, surprised that the other woman was aware of this particular piece of information. She considered her quizzically, then glanced past her to the broken window and her lips curled into a knowing smile.

“You've been listening,” she concluded.

“You weren't exactly trying to keep it down.”

Celaena hesitated for a moment, considering the insight, and then shrugged, deeming it irrelevant. “Well, you would have found out sooner or later. Yes, I have a customer who is willing to pay a substantial sum for the privilege to command a witcher. So I need him alive. Lucky for me, I have a healer at my disposal.” She tilted her head slightly, a look of calculation in her eyes. “I trust that you'll do your best.”

“Who… is that… customer?”

It was Geralt's voice, breathy and barely audible.

Triss gazed down at him, surprised to see his eyes open. He gazed at her from beneath swollen eyelids, looking half-dead, but it was clear that he had followed the conversation attentively. Pain was etched across his lines.

“One who pays well,” Celaena retorted coldly. “It's all you need to know.”

“So this is…,” he stopped to catch his breath and winced, “nothing personal?”

“Hell, witcher, I don't even know you,” she laughed. “No, this is nothing personal. I'm just trying to make a living. Not everyone born with the gift is lucky enough to become a court mage.”

The last words were directed at Triss who bristled with indignation. “It was your own fault that you were expelled.”

Celaena scoffed. “From what I've heard, you played your part in that as well.”

Triss had a sharp reply on her lips but was momentarily silenced by Geralt who was struggling to turn onto his side. Seeing his difficulties, she aided his movements, hands on his shoulders, and felt her heart skip a beat as he suddenly heaved, spitting a worrisome amount of blood onto the floor.

Triss cursed under her breath as she realized what kind of injuries this hinted at. Celaena must have noticed too, because the smile dropped from her face, making room for an expression that was tangled somewhere between annoyance and alarm.

“I'll make sure you get what you need.”

Triss didn't look up as she left, all attention focused on the injured man before her. Geralt retched again, more violent this time, and brought up more of the red nastiness. A helpless groan escaped him, and she slung her arms around him, holding him as cramps assailed him once more.

“Easy,” she mumbled with a calm she did not feel, all the while holding his damp hair from his face.

He spit another mouthful onto the floor and collapsed against her with a low groan, completely spent. She shifted from under him, gently easing his head to the ground.

“Let me have a look at you,” she murmured. “Hold still, okay?”

Following an instinct, she shifted to tug his shirt free and pushed it up as far as she could, biting her lip when it revealed the full extent of the beating. There was extensive bruising along his ribs and abdomen, deep and black, the bandage over the wound in his side completely soaked with blood. He must have suffered one hell of a beating. No wonder he was vomiting is insides out.

She cursed under her breath. “Shit, Geralt, this looks bad.”

Of course, there were magical ways to assess a patient's injuries, but the dimeritium effectively deprived her of that option. Looked like she had to resort to traditional methods. She hated having to cause him pain but right now it couldn't be helped. She needed to see how bad it really was. With the gentle touch of a healer, she started to examine the bruises, pressing down to feel for ruptures beneath them, and winced in sympathy when he gave an anguished groan. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled. There it was, the swelling that indicated major internal bleeding, no doubt the result of the physical abuse.

She straightened her back and kneaded her lip, thoughts racing. Considering his thready pulse, he had probably lost a lot of blood already and it was likely he was still bleeding. But there was nothing she could do to help him, not without magic.

“Geralt?”

She placed a hand against the side of his face, prompting him to open his eyes.

“Listen,” she said a lot calmer than she felt, “You probably know this, but you're bleeding internally. I don't know much about a witcher's mutations. Any chance that the bleeding will stop by itself?”

“Maybe.” The response was labored, forced out between shallow breaths. “Depends on...how bad it is.”

She sighed, trying hard to hide her frustration. Panicking wouldn't help either of them. Celaena would probably return soon and she had a great interest in Geralt's survival. She would help. She had to. Triss cast a swift glance at the closed door, then returned her attention to Geralt.

“Okay. Let's have a look at the wound in your side.”

He didn't even respond to that. By the look of it, he was about to pass out.

She unwrapped the bandage as gently as he could, cursing when she discovered that part of the cloth was stuck in the wound, clotted blood merging the fabric to his flesh. She could feel him tense under her hands as she removed the last bit of the soiled bandage, and a small gasp escaped his lips. She gazed into his face, needing to make sure that he was okay, and saw that he was impossibly paler than before, his skin glistening with sweat.

“Hang in there,” she told him softly.

Once the wound was laid open, blood started to flow freely down his side. The injury itself was an angry red, swollen and oozing, and it was obvious that it would have to be cleaned thoroughly. Without any means of pain relief, it would be hell for him.

“Geralt...” she began hesitantly, not sure how to tell him.

“I know… it's become infected.” Pain glazed eyes latched onto her face, exhausted and weary beyond description.

Then his gaze dropped to her neck and his brows furrowed.

“She...put a collar on you.”

Regret sounded in his voice and Triss reflexively reached up to her neck to touch the cold metal.

“It's nothing.”

He shook his head, the crease between his brows deepening.

“This is my fault. Triss... I am so sorry.” He extended a clumsy hand and rested it against the side of her face. His skin felt ice cold. “I'll get you out of here, I promise.”

Triss held his gaze, feeling her throat constrict at the seriousness in his eyes. Here he was, more dead than alive, with the prospect of spending the rest of his life in slavery, and he was worried about _her_. Sudden tears stung in her eyes at the realization and the crease between his brows deepened.

“Don't worry,” he mumbled, voice barely about a whisper. “She won't let me… die.”

Triss managed a small smile, letting him know that she was okay, and when his hand grew heavy, she collected it in hers, squeezing it reassuringly before placing it down. His lips twitched slightly as his eyes drifted closed. It looked as if he was listening to something.

“Here they come...”

Triss frowned and for a moment wondered whether he was imagining things, but then she could hear too. Weighty footfalls outside the door.

She looked up just in time to see it open.

It was the first time she saw Celaena's companion from eye to eye but she didn't doubt for a second that this was the man whose conversation she had overheard the night before. He was smaller than she had imagined, bulkier. Without a word, he walked past them, cast them a brief, wary glance and dropped an armful of firewood next to the hearth.

Triss laid a light hand on Geralt's shoulder before pushing to her feet. She covered him with the threadbare blanket from her bed, then turned to the hearth to stack the wood.

Meanwhile, the man returned several times, never uttering a word, bringing a small kettle of water, a washing bowl, clean linen cloths and a bottle containing a clear liquid. Triss uncorked it and immediately identified it as alcohol. Not her first choice of remedy, but it would have to do.

“So, will you be able to fix him?”

Triss looked up at Celaena who had appeared in the doorway, a spare blanket in her hand. With a small wave of her hand, she gestured her companion to take position by the door, then lifted her dress to step around the puddle of vomit on the floor to look at Geralt, eying his supine form with the detached interest of a merchant checking damaged goods. “He doesn't look too well.”

“He is gravely injured. He has internal bleeding and it needs to be stopped.”

Celaena frowned at the information.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“That's just it. I can't.”

Triss gestured at the atrocious collar around her neck, eyes dark with anger.

“You want me to remove the collar?”

“I won't be able to help him if you don't.”

Celaena shook her head incredulously, huffing a short laugh.

“Well, isn't that just convenient,” she scoffed. “And what happens if I do, huh? You'll just cast a healing spell? You can't really believe I'm that stupid."

“He might die if you don't.”

“Well, I guess I'm willing to take that risk.”

Triss felt her temper slipping, rage sweeping her at the sheer amount of ignorance, but she somehow managed to maintain her composure.

“You don't believe me? Well, have a look at him yourself.”

Celaena crossed her arms in front of chest, not showing the slightest inclination to do as she was asked. Triss wasn't sure if she really didn't believe her or if she was just unwilling to get her hands dirty, but it sure did a lot to push her closer to the edge.

“Damn it, Celaena, do something!”

The blond mage stared at her, eyes narrowed, then exchanged a glance with her companion and sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “Stand back.”

Triss complied. From a short distance, she watched the other woman kneel down beside Geralt, who lay unmoving, eyes closed, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive. Celaena's face was unreadable as she took in the various bruises that marred his body and the weeping wound in his side, then extended both her hands in a gesture that Triss recognized as a simple spell of assessment. It was a beginner's spell, the one a student might use, and it occurred to her that despite the proficiency Celaena might have attained in some fields of magic, she probably didn't know a lot about healing.

It was weird not being able to sense the magic, and Triss inadvertently touched the collar around her neck, a gesture that threatened to become a habit.

Celaena frowned, lowering her hands.

“Seems you're right,” she admitted, bewildered.

“So, will you let me help him?”

Celaena shot a brief glance at her. “You mean take off your collar? No.” She regarded the witcher thoughtfully. “But I know enough of healing magic to stop the bleeding. The rest will be up to you.”

Again, she extended her hands, this time laying them directly on his bruised mid-section and lowered her eyelids in concentration. Geralt gasped, eyes flying open in agony, his back arching off the floor, and Triss, unable to stand back any longer, rushed to kneel beside him and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders to keep him still, all the while cursing the arrogance of the other mage. Done properly, a healing spell wasn't painful. It was easier, of course, to omit the initial work of numbing the pain, to release chaos in one violent burst than going slow. It took less effort. But it was sloppy and considering the extent of his injuries, downright cruel.

Geralt slammed his head against the floor, hands clenched into fists as magic erupted into his battered body, sealing broken vessels and forcing ruptured tissue closed. While Triss mumbled incoherent words of reassurance, she felt him tremble beneath her hands, every fiber of his being determined to contain the pain, until he could take it no more and he voiced his agony in a sound that twisted like a knife in her gut. All fight left him then, his eyes rolling up in his head, and he became limp.

Hands shaking, Triss let go of him to feel for a pulse, exhaling a sigh of relief when she found his heart still beating. She used her sleeve to gently wipe the sweat from his brow, smoothing the lines of pain from his face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Celaena rise and dust off her skirts.

“See, no need for your healing magic,” she declared. “Bleeding's stopped. I'll leave the rest to you.”

“Wait.”

Triss looked at her, weary and emotionally exhausted. “Will you help me get him over to the bed?”

It wasn't a bed really, just a simple straw mattress, but it was better than the cold floor. Celaena considered the request, then nodded at the man who blocked the doorway.

“Tomec will help you with that.”

The sorceress exchanged a brief glance with her companion, and the latter made short work of the task, lifting Geralt's limp form over his shoulder like a sack of flour and dropping him unceremoniously on the assigned sleeping spot.

Triss instantly discarded the thought of asking them for any help when it came to removing Geralt's shirt, appalled at the lack of care.

“I trust that will be all?” Celaena asked from the doorway. She looked pale, as if the spell had drained her, and it occurred to Triss that this was probably not far from the truth. Not that she gave a damn.

“Just go,” Triss said quietly.

The door fell closed.

It took a while for Triss to get the fire going, and another long while until the water was boiling. In the meantime, she worked Geralt's shirt off as gently as she could and did her best to make him comfortable. As long as he was out cold, at least she didn't have to worry about causing him any more pain.

In want of a pillow, she bundled up her sash and slipped it under his head, then started to work off his boots. It was then that she found the small, shiny object he had hidden there. Sitting back on her haunches, she held it up into the light, staring in disbelief, and a relieved smile tucked at her lips. She had no idea how he had managed to keep Celaena from searching him, but in the end it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had been able to hold on to it.

Stunned, not really daring to hope yet, Triss gazed into Geralt's still face and remembered his words. _Don't worry. I'll get you out of here._

Maybe he would get to keep his promise.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N Thank you so much for your lovely comments and your continuing support. You're really making this worthwhile :-)

Fire crackled in the hearth. It was a comforting sound, a sound of shelter and warmth, and though he knew that the safety it suggested was false, that he was captive and lying near death, he allowed the low sound of licking flames and bursting wood to calm his mind.

He did not know how long he had lain here, gazing at the shadows twisting and flickering against the ceiling, limbs too heavy to move. His body ached, every breath stretching his ribs with a spike of pain, every nerve in his body sandpapered and raw with fever. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. It chimed in with the throbbing agony in his side, a deep and molten hurt, searing as if a hot poker was twisting inside his flesh, relentless and nauseating. A sound of misery sat at the back of his throat, wanting out, but he didn't voice it, knowing it wouldn't bring him relief.

He longed to go back to sleep again.

Something moved next to him, and a shadow fell across his face.

“Geralt?”

A familiar voice, followed by the glimpse of a familiar face.

Triss.

He gazed at her from under swollen eyelids, unable to focus much, but noted the deep shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes, the tousled mess of dark curls. With a detached sense of curiosity he noticed she had freckles.

Her hand came to rest on his brow, cool and light, and it was accompanied by a waft of perfume that he had never paid attention to. Now it registered with a clarity that overwhelmed him. White jasmine, he thought. Faded, a trace of fragrance only, mixed with the scent of her skin.

“You're running a high fever.”

Her voice, pitched to a whisper, sounded overly clear in his head.

“It's the wound in your side. I've cleaned it the best I could, but there's only so much I can do without magic. I wish I could give you something against the pain at least, but all I have is water.”

He felt her hand slip behind his neck and the rim of a cup pressed against his lips.

“Drink. You haven't drunk anything for a day at least.”

A small amount of water went past his parched lips and he swallowed with some difficulty, but he relished the taste of it. Only now he became aware of the stale taste in his mouth, bitter like bile with a tinge of rusted iron. He wanted more of the cool liquid and swallowed greedily, but the cup was removed far too soon.

“Easy,” she said softly. “Not so fast. Let's see if this settles. You can have more later.”

His head was lowered down again and came to lie against something soft, something that was damp with sweat and his own scents, and a trace of that powdery perfume that was hers. He didn't have the strength to ponder on it though, felt the world slipping from his grasp, and when her cool touch was on his brow again, his eyes drifted closed.

He was pulled from oblivion as pain welled up in his side. Gasping, he tried to twist away from the source of torment, but a hand pressed down on his shoulder, urging him to lie still.

“Don't move.”

Sensing her good intentions, he tried to cooperate as she examined the wound, but the fiery agony returned, worse than before, and again he squirmed, a broken sob trembling from his lips.

“F***,” he cursed, desperate for the pain to stop, and a hand curled around his, small but firm and reassuring. He returned the squeeze with all that was left in him.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I know it hurts. But the wound is badly infected and there's only so much I can do.”

Something hot and moist pressed onto his wound and he quivered, dizzy and sick from the pain alone.

“What…?” His voice broke before he could finish the question.

“I'm using hot compresses to control the infection. It's not as efficient as a poultice, but it'll do. It's looking a lot better already.”

It sure didn't feel like it.

“How long...?”

It took a lot of effort to force the words past his throat, and he felt her lean closer to understand. When he blinked his eyes open, she smiled for him. Worried, exhausted beyond measures, but she smiled.

“Almost a day.” Her thumb brushed over the knuckles of his hand. “Your body is working hard to fight this.”

He gazed at her, her face dark and shadowed against the hearth fire from behind, her hair edged in a line of gold. She looked beautiful.

“Try to sleep.”

He wanted to but he knew he couldn't. There was something that he needed to know, something important, but the thought continued to slip from his grasp. The only thing that registered with clarity was the danger they were in and the desperate need to do something about it.

“Triss...”

There was an anguished tone to his voice that he hadn't intended, and he saw her brows furrow in response.

“I know. I'm sorry.” She hesitated. “There's some alcohol left, so if you need something to - ”

“No, I...” Pain hitched in his throat and he swallowed, trying to hold on to his thought. It took a while until he could talk again. “The amulet.” The words came out as breath only and she squeezed his hand in reply.

“I found it. It's save with me. Rest now.”

He nodded in relief. There was so much more he wanted to tell her, but he didn't have the strength to hold on. Defeated, he exhaled a sigh, eyes drifting closed of their own accord, waiting for sleep to pull him under. But the pain was still there, deep and pulsing like a living thing, a demon lurking on the threshold of oblivion, refusing to let him pass. And so he remained on the verge of sleep, too weak to fully wake and hurting too much to let go. Triss must have noticed because she did not move, patiently holding his hand in hers, returning the grip of his fingers with equal pressure, and after a long while shifted to replace the compress on his side.

He shuddered from the pain, glad when she resumed her place at his bedside to offer her touch again, and this time he pulled her hand close to his face. Her scent filled his nostrils and he focused on that. It became his anchor in a sea of fire, and though it never filled his mind completely, it distracted him enough to make the hurt more bearable.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for when he opened his eyes again, a pair of steel-gray eyes bored into his. Startled, he tried to recoil but found that he was barely able to move. Before him, a face swam into focus. Elegant brows, a straight nose. Pale hair pulled back into a tight bun that glowed ghostly white in the darkness. She studied him with the cold interest of a scholar inspecting a specimen, her thin lips twitching into the resemblance of a smile.

He tensed as he realized who he was looking at and a name formed on his lips.

“Celaena.”

“You recognize me. Good.” She tilted her head slightly. “Seems like Triss has done a good job.”

Triss. The name caused all kinds of alarms to go off in his head and with a surge of terror, he realized that she was nowhere to be seen. He made an effort to push up to look past the blond mage who was crouching at his bedside and fell back with a groan, his muscles too weak to support his weight.

“Where is she?”

His voice was hoarse with apprehension. All kinds of scenarios took shape before his mind's eye, none of them very comforting.

The smile on Celaena's face widened, amusement shining in her eyes.

“I've taken care of her. She's interfered enough.”

His hands jerked at that, ready to wrap around her throat, but he felt her mind sweep over him before he could act. Like a puppeteer she took control of his limbs, deliberately keeping him paralyzed, and no matter how much he strained against her, there was no leverage, no way to break free. Not without the amulet. He remembered what Triss had told him. Gods, he hoped that Celaena hadn't found it.

“It's useless,” she said softly, her hand reaching to caress the side of his face. “You cannot fight me now. Not anymore.”

A distant scream tore through the walls of the decrepit tower, agonized and despaired, and Celaena tilted her head, listening, eyes hooded as if entranced by a song. She smiled.

Geralt felt his chest constrict at the high-pitched wail of torment. It was a woman's voice, distorted almost beyond recognition, but he instantly knew who that voice belonged to. He paled at the realization, mentally straining against the invisible bonds that tied him, but he couldn't move an inch. Despite the heat of fever, he suddenly felt a chill creep over him.

The tortured voice broke and turned into a helpless sob.

“Stop it,” he begged, voice rough. “Let her go. It's me you want.”

Her fingers languidly trailed his cheekbone, then moved to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing over his lips. He would have shuddered at her touch if he had been able to but even that was taken from him.

“But I don't want to stop,” she smiled. “I like the way she screams and I like the horror in your eyes. You should never have resisted me in the first place.”

“Let her go,” he breathed. A single drop of sweat ran down his neck. “I _asked_ her to help me. She has nothing to do with this. Please. If you want to punish someone, it should be me.”

She straightened her back and pursed her lips, not unlike a child who refuses to let go of her favorite toy.

“No. She deserves to be punished. She messed up everything.” Cruelty shone in her gray eyes. “But if it's true what you say and you asked for her help, then this is on you. You caused her suffering, witcher, because you wanted to save yourself.”

He shook his head in silent terror, eyes locked onto hers, pleading with her, trying to make her stop by sheer force of will. Guilt and anguish clawed at his heart, born from the terrible knowledge that what she said was true. By asking for Triss's aid, he had knowingly put her in danger. It had been his responsibility to protect her, to keep her safe, and he had failed miserably. It might just as well be his hand inflicting the suffering.

Somewhere in the darkness, the wail turned into a cry of agony and his heart shattered.

Her scream still echoed in his ears when he opened his eyes. He squinted at the brightness, disoriented, his heart racing. Birdsong filled his ears, undoubtedly wafting in from an open window and he could hear the faint rustling of leaves. It had to be daytime.

He cracked his eyes open and found that his assessment was true. Panting and deeply shaken, he lay still for a long while, trying to adjust to his changed surroundings, and little by little, he was able to calm his breathing. When he became aware of something warm wrapped around his hand, he turned his head, surprised to find it cradled in the hand of another. Frowning, his eyes trailed up to glance at the slight frame that lay slumped against the wall by his bedside, face hidden under a mass of dark curls.

“Triss?”

With gritted teeth, Geralt carefully rolled on his side, and her hand slipped from his grasp. She stirred, brows furrowing at the sound of her name, and blinked her eyes at him tiredly.

“Hey, you're awake.” She looked a little worse for the wear, her delicate features taut from lack of sleep, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. It must have been a dream, he thought. A very vivid one, realistic in a way that deeply troubled him, but nonetheless just a dream.

Like a sleepy cat, she uncurled from her uncomfortable position against the wall, massaging her neck before she shifted closer to reach for him.

“You look pale.” Her hand pressed against his brow to gauge his temperature, then moved to brush a sweaty strand of hair from his face. A small smile touched her lips. “But it seems your fever is down. How are you feeling?”

He sighed softly, not willing to admit to anything beside his physical discomfort. There was nothing to be gained from sharing his nightmare with her, nothing she could say or do to ease his mind. It would only scare her.

“Terrible.” He winced, trying to push himself up to lean against the wall behind him and cursed when his muscles wouldn't cooperate. “I could use a healing potion.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, we don't have anything of the like. Here, let me help you.”

Leaning over him, she took hold of his shoulders and aided him upright. As she did, her hair brushed against his naked skin and with it a familiar trace of perfume wafted over him, so faint that it might have been memory only. Maybe it was. It was impossibly hard to concentrate. Closing his eyes, he let his head sink backwards until it rested against the wall, keeping track of Triss's movements with his ears only. Listened to the clink of glass touching glass followed by the sound of a liquid being poured. The rustle of her skirts as she bent closer.

“Drink. You must replenish the fluids you have lost.”

He opened his eyes and accepted the cup that Triss pressed into his hands.

“Thank you.”

He took a sip, trying hard to keep his hands from shaking. Triss was hovering nearby, ready to assist him, but it turned out to be unnecessary. He was infinitely grateful for that.

“Do you think you can manage some food too?”

“I'll try.”

He watched her absent-mindedly as she got to her feet to retrieve a bowl from across the room. The silver threads in her dress glistened as she moved about, catching the sunlight that streamed in from the broken window. Judging by the angle of the sun, it had to be around noon. Part of him still had a hard time believing she was real.

“Have you been sitting there the whole time?” He asked wearily.

“Mostly. I had to tend to the fire too.” She cast him a curious glance. “Why?”

His eyes wandered across the small space, taking in the hearth, which lay cold now, and the shattered window. Noticed the heap of bloodied bandages on the floor and the bowl of water, then drifted over the black bundle by the wall which had to be his shirt and boots.

He returned his gaze to her as she knelt down at his bedside, bowl in hand. It was filled with something that looked like yesterday's oatmeal. He wasn't picky when it came to food, the simple life on the road often leaving him the choice to eat what was at hand or starve altogether, but right now the mere thought of food made him sick.

“Has Celaena been here while I was out?”

He accepted the bowl and set it on his lap and Triss took the empty cup from his hands.

“Yes, twice, but you wouldn't have noticed. You have been asleep most of the time.”

“Did she hurt you?”

Triss stopped in mid-movement. He recognized the look on her face, the twitching brows that betrayed concern beyond his physical hurt. But if she sensed that he was hiding something from her, she didn't address it.

“No, Geralt. She didn't hurt me. Not after I have got here, at least. And I think that I'll be safe for another two days at least.”

“I take it that's when her customer will arrive to pick up his merchandise.”

The words tasted bitter on his lips.

“Yes.”

He poked at his food with barely concealed disgust.

“What about the amulet? You said you'd hold on to it.”

“I'm surprised you even remember that. I've kept it hidden in the shaft of my boot.” A small smile played around her lips when she noticed his raised eyebrows. She reached for her foot. “It's a good hiding place.”

He took the amulet from her hands. The touch of it instantly eased some of his tension and he realized just how much he had feared losing it. Distractedly, his fingers traced the rune engraved in its middle, the soft vibration of his witcher medallion an unexpected source of comfort. He'd have to find a good place to hide it, as he wouldn't be able to wear it openly, not if he wanted to postpone a confrontation with Celaena. As long as he was bedridden, his boots weren't an option though and he didn't want to part from it.

“It's fortunate that Celaena hasn't found it,” Triss went on. “One would think that she'd be more thorough. She's arrogant. Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

Having reached a decision, Geralt put the bowl to the floor and folded the blanket back. Grimacing, he bent to reach his foot and used the leather string to tie the amulet around his ankle, then pulled up his sock to cover it.

“Help me up,” he demanded, a hand pressed against the wall as he struggled to his feet. Triss's eyes widened in alarm and she lay a restraining hand on his arm.

“I don't think you should...”

“I need to have a look at this place,” he grunted. “And I could use your help.”

“Your wound will tear open again if you move around too much,” she argued. “And there's no need to do anything right now. As I said, we have still two days left before - “

“Yeah, I wouldn't count on that.”

Triss stared at him, uncomprehending. He couldn't really hold it against her. The way he felt, he probably looked half-dead and she was speaking from the viewpoint of a healer. But if there was one thing that he had learned in his life as witcher, it was to expect the worst and be as well prepared as physically possible. He had learned the hard way, more than once having had to face a threat he hadn't expected.

And yes, maybe they did have two more days. But what if Celaena decided that she didn't need Triss anymore? What if she decided to use her as leverage, just in case Geralt tried to cross her? Then there was Celaena's mysterious customer. What if he didn't want to wait anymore and showed up early? There were too many variables, too many things to be considered. Now was the time to prepare. And if there was a way to get Triss to safety before the inevitable confrontation, he would rather do it now.

Triss mumbled a curse under her breath but presented with the choice of letting Geralt injure himself further by risking him fall or lending him a hand, she chose the latter. She swayed slightly under his weight but managed to lever her small body effectively against his, keeping him upright as he slowly made his way across the room. Once they had reached the shattered window, he braced himself on the sill, gazing down three stories, then cautiously leaned out of the window to determine the distance to the roof.

“You want to climb out?” Triss asked incredulously.

“It's not impossible,” he declared, voice strained and out of breath. “But right now, I don't think I'll be able to pull myself up to the roof. How far to the nearest settlement?”

“Maybe half a day's ride to Vizima. There's a small village about two hours west from here, but I don't know its name. Why?”

“Might be that the city guards will find us in time. Wouldn't count on it though.”

“Vesten's men?”

“Hmm.”

“You have managed to convince them of your innocence?”

“No. But Vesten's doing his best to save you.”

Clutching the wound in his side, he turned from the window to inspect the hearth. Noted the almost empty bottle of alcohol which might serve as a makeshift weapon and picked it up.

“How many people are in the building besides Celaena?”

“I only know of her associate, Tomec. You might remember him.”

That sounded manageable, but he would try to put off a fight as long as possible. Sure, he had his witcher signs, but more than likely, he would have to face both of them at once and right now he was painfully aware of his physical limitations. Without her magic, Triss wouldn't be a great help either.

“The door?” He nodded towards the other end of the room.

“Locked and barred. Sturdy too,” Triss added, looking at him, the worried expression on her face deepening. “Geralt, you look white as a sheet. Why don't you lie back down? There's nothing you can do right now.”

She was right, their options were limited, and the short walk to the window had exhausted him beyond measures. It would be smart to rest as much as he could, regain his strength. If only there was a way to heal faster.

He pondered on that as Triss guided him back to the mattress and helped him settle back down. He placed the bottle in arm's reach, annoyed at his shaking hands.

“You're planning to take them on before Celaena's customer arrives,” Triss stated the obvious.

He nodded, slightly out of breath. “Less opponents. Better chances of survival.”

“Celaena will try to control you. Do you think you'll be able to withstand her?”

Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. It was a legitimate question. “Honestly, I don't know.”

He felt drained, both physically and mentally, and now that he was lying down again, the wound in his side was starting to throb painfully again. His heart hammered as if he had just run for his life. Triss's hand came to rest on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and he reached up to it, lost in thought. There was something else that he had wanted to ask Triss, something that kept escaping him. If only he could remember what that was.

“Her ring,” he suddenly said.

“What?” Triss looked at him, confusion written all over her face.

“When Celaena broke me from my cell, I noticed a ring on her finger.” Geralt let go of her hand to clutch the wound in his side, shifting slightly to be able to return her look. “Shortly before she took over my mind, I saw it glow, as if she was using it to cast her spell.”

Triss nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. If she had bound you to herself, she wouldn't be able to sell you away. I've wondered what artifact she might have created.”

“So if we take the ring, she'll lose her power over me.”

“Probably, yes. If you didn't imagine things.”

He frowned. Now that he thought back on the brief moments before he had blacked out, he wasn't sure anymore. His recollections of the past days were hazy at best, fragmented sensations that were mostly pain and discomfort, and the memory of the glowing ring was just as real as Triss's tortured screams from his dream. His fingers reached to massage his temples. What if it hadn't been a dream at all but Celaena trying to get under his skin?

“Everything alright?”

Triss's voice. She sounded concerned.

He looked up at her and shook his head. “I don't know.”

She sighed softly, laying a light hand on his arm. “Okay, how about this. You'll let me have a look at your injuries and change the dressings, and then you'll go back to sleep. I might even have some proper food once you wake up.”

That sounded alright to him. The way it was, he could barely keep his eyes open. His gaze trailed to the hearth across the room as Triss set to work. The fireplace was cold now, but he distinctly remembered the flames that had flickered there at night, the soft hiss of dying embers, the sound of charred fragments falling through the metal grate. He remembered it as clearly as Celaena's flint gray eyes, as clearly as Triss's anguished cries of pain. And as he tried to figure out if he had seen the ring glow with the same clarity, it occurred to him that it didn't matter. Right now, it was the only lead he had, and he would go with it.

When it came to his nightmare though, he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been more than just a vision of fear sprung from his fevered mind. It almost felt like a premonition, a warning to be heeded. He felt with certainty that he needed to get Triss out of here before she could come to harm, no matter what, and he would do everything in his power to make that happen.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N So, I have done it again. I've had this chapter up already although I wasn't quite happy with it, but since I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, I thought - meh, what the heck. And then, when I was lying awake at night two days later, I realized what needed to be changed. I really hope this doesn't become a habit. Maybe I should get a beta reader to help me sort things out. Bottom line, I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you for your patience :-)

Triss drew her cloak closer around her narrow shoulders. Now that the firewood was gone, the room had grown chilly again and the constant draft from the broken window didn't help. It was her second day of watching of the injured witcher and the discomfort from sleeping on the cold floor was staring to wear on her. There was barely any food left, their captors deeming it unnecessary to provide them with new rations of bread or water, and although Geralt hadn't managed to eat anything up unil now, she was hesitant to take the last remains for herself.

Geralt made a small sound of distress and turned his head, but he didn't wake, shivering slightly despite the second blanket that Triss had spread over him. She bent closer to check on him and saw his brows twitch in his sleep, his eyeballs darting back and forth behind closed eyelids. He was dreaming. From the expression on his face, it couldn't be anything pleasant.

“Please don't,” he begged, his words slurred almost past recognition.

Triss frowned at the familiar words, preparing to wake him if need be. Even though his fever had dropped enough so that it was of no immediate concern anymore, the dreams that had haunted his sleep persisted, bringing him to gasping awareness when all he needed was rest. During the course of the afternoon, his sleep had been disturbed more frequently, and the fact troubled Triss more that she liked to admit.

“Please…” His nostrils flared and his hand involuntarily curled around the edge of the mattress, his knuckles white. “Celaena...”

His eyes flew open then and he bolted upright, groaning when the sudden movement awakened the sleeping pain, and Triss, who had expected this, acted quickly, catching him around his shoulders before he doubled over.

“Easy,” she said softly. “It's okay. You've been dreaming.”

He clutched his ribs and his eyes latched onto her in confusion, widening as recognition set in. “Triss?”

She twitched her lips into a reassuring smile. His eyes traveled past her, scanning the room, and it took a moment until he was able to make sense of it all.

“F***.”

“Come on,” she told him, feeling the tremors of his exhausted muscles under her hands, “lie down again.”

She urged him back onto the mattress and he was weary enough to allow it. While she reached to pour him a cup of water, he let out a deep sigh, pressing a shaky hand against his temple. She hated to see him like this, even more since she knew that there were ways to produce relief. The right mixture of herbs and a simple healing spell would suffice to put him into a dreamless sleep, allowing him to truly heal. Just that currently these options were taken from her. Helpless anger swept her at the thought, as it so often had in the past days.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at her directly.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she responded quietly. She suspected that he was beating himself up for her captivity, but it was hard to tell, given the fact that he stubbornly refused to share any details of what was troubling him. Based on what she knew about domination magic, it might well be that the curse was starting to take its toll on his mind, the continuing mental assault causing injuries of its own.

“Care for some water?”

He shook his head, his mind obviously somewhere else. She suppressed a sigh and put down the cup, gazing intently at his troubled face.

“What about food? There's still a little left and you haven't eaten anything for the past two days.”

His gaze shifted to rest on her and he let his hand fall back to the blanket, shaking his head again.

“No, thank you.”

“Geralt...”

When he noticed the worried expression on her face, he gave a wan smile.

“I'm sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I don't think I can.”

Triss rested her hands in her lap, biting back her frustration. He was still ghostly pale, weak from blood loss and fever, and judging by the tense lines on his face still in considerable pain. It was obvious how the past days had drained him, and he needed to take in food and fluids if he was to restore his strength anytime soon. However, she could see that something weighed on his mind, and being a healer, she knew that it needed to be tended to as well.

“Alright,” she conceded.

Outside the wind picked up and a cloud slid in front of the setting sun, casting a shadow over them both. She tilted her head, wishing very much to be rid of the dimeritium collar, if only for a moment, so that she could see what was going on behind those yellow eyes. Being deprived of her magic made it painfully clear to her how much of her skills depended on it. She would have to follow her instinct here, but she didn't know if it would be enough.

“Would you like to tell me about your dream?” she offered carefully, watchful for any change in his face.

The way he averted his gaze and firmed his lips made her regret her venture at once. As open as he had been about his physical discomfort, when it came to this he was as closed off as ever. It stung her more than she had anticipated.

“I can see that something troubles you,” she added. “Why not talk about it? It might help.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. When he met her eyes again, his expression was carefully guarded.

“No, Triss,” he said firmly.

“But...”

“Leave it be.”

She searched his face, hurt by his refusal to confide in her, and unwilling to let it slide. “You're not getting the rest you need,” she pointed out. “And you need to get better quickly, so you can fight her. So we can get out of here. I need you, Geralt. I don't want to die here. Please.”

Pain wavered in his eyes and with a pang of guilt, she realized that she had unwittingly laid a finger into an open wound. However, it was too late to take it back now.

“I know.” His voice was rough. “I won't let you down, Triss. I promise.”

He frowned, his eyes wandering past her as if he was listening to something.

“They're coming.”

There was a sudden urgency in his voice and he grimaced as he pushed himself up a little, leaning back against the wall.

Triss strained her ears, trying to make out any sound beside the wind in the trees outside the tower, then shook her head. “I can't hear anything. Are you sure?”

“Hmm.”

Triss looked at him quizzically and he lifted his brows slightly. “Two kinds of footfalls,” he added. “You'll hear them soon enough.”

He gazed at her intently, an expression of deep regret on his face. “Listen, Triss. I don't know if I'll be able to focus enough to fight her off just yet.”

Considering his lack of restful sleep, his assessment didn't surprise her.

“Then don't,” she told him, laying a light hand on his arm. “We still have a day at least until the customer arrives. No need to make an attempt for escape right now.”

His eyes didn't waver and she shivered at the sincerity she saw there. “I know. But if she tries to make me hurt you, I won't be able to - ”

His voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut, his body suddenly tensing. She could feel the muscles of his arm work under her fingers.

“F***”

“Geralt?” She laid a hand against the side of his face in hopes of getting his attention, but to no avail. He trembled under her hands, his face a grimace of strain as he fought the mental assault, and then, from one moment to the next, his struggles ceased. When his eyes slid open again, his gaze was empty. Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and a key turned in the lock. Triss bit her lip, then turned to face the door.

Celaena strode in with the authority of a queen.

“Stand back.”

Her voice wasn't particularly loud, but it was clear that she would tolerate no dissent. She wore the same plain dress from the day before but had clearly taken the time to rest and wash up, her hairdo an image of strict perfection. Her companion – Tomec, Triss remembered – followed in dogged silence, sword sheathed at his belt, accepting her lead. With dismay, Triss realized that their hands were empty, so they hadn't come to bring fresh water or food.

Steeling herself against what was to come, she rose from Geralt's side and met Celaena's eyes levelly.

“What do you want?”

Triss squared her shoulders, unwilling to give way before she knew what was going on. She distinctly remembered the last time the blond mage had laid her hands on Geralt and she wasn't about to let that happen again. Not if she could prevent it.

Celaena gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “I've come to check on my witcher. Now step aside.”

“Leave him be. He's still very sick and - ”

“I'm not interested in your opinion,” she interrupted her, “nor in your attempts to fool me. I want to see for myself.”

Celaena nodded at Tomec who stepped up and grabbed Triss's arm to pull her aside. Bristling with anger, she tried to twist from his grasp and froze when his sword hissed from its sheath. She found herself shoved against the wall and instinctively pulled her head back to put as much distance between the blade and her throat as she could while watching Geralt being forced to his feet under the influence of the spell.

“You really shouldn't make him stand,” she protested. “The wound in his side has barely started to heal.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Triss locked her jaw as she saw Geralt's labored movements, his body too weak to fully cooperate. Celaena stood with her arms crossed, studying the witcher's attempts to get to his feet with great intent. Something golden on her finger caught the last remains of daylight. Triss's eyes narrowed as she noticed the ring for the first time, her gaze drawn to its blunt jewel that swallowed the light. It was curiously unattractive for a piece of jewelry, and it occurred to Triss that this indeed might be the artifact Geralt had been bound to although it lacked the glow Geralt had described. She wondered if it was due to the dimeritium numbing her magical senses.

Celaena smiled in satisfaction as Geralt succeeded in his task and stood obediently, gazing ahead with vacant eyes, awaiting his orders.

“Take off the bandage,” she gestured at the cloth that was wrapped around his midsection. “I want to see your wound.”

Clumsily, Geralt did as he was bidden, unwrapping the dressing, then lifting his arm to allow Celaena a closer look. Triss firmed her lips as his injuries were laid open. Although the infection had improved markedly, the edges of the cut were still reddened and swollen, and it was evident that the wound was far from healed. Deep bruises spread along his ribs and abdomen, dark and painful. Celaena scoffed in disapproval and made him present the cut on his arm, then grabbed his chin to tilt his head towards the light of the window. Triss could see the slight tremor that shook his frame, a clear sign of exhaustion, and she hated Celaena for making him exert himself like this. The man needed to rest, not pose like some dog at a breed show.

“He looks barely better.” Celaena's comment was directed at Triss whose shoulders stiffened in response. “I thought that witchers would heal faster than that. I admit I am a bit disappointed.”

“Well, what do you expect? You have denied him proper medical care and he lacks nourishment. Even the healing abilities of a witcher need nutrients to draw from. Any fool knows that.”

Triss was silenced by the cool touch of steel against her throat.

“Careful, Miss Merigold,” a deep voice warned. “You are talking to the woman who is holding your life in her hands.”

Celaena made a dismissive gesture. “Leave it be, Tomec. I have suffered so many insults in my time, it doesn't really make a difference.” She left Geralt standing where he was and turned to Triss, quiet interest in her eyes, and Tomec lowered the sword. It was enough for Triss to assume a more comfortable position and she let go of a breath that she didn't recall holding.

“So, what are you suggesting?” Celaena inquired.

Triss straightened. Maybe there was a way to talk sense into her after all. She reminded herself that the other woman had a serious interest in Geralt's wellbeing, given the fact that she wanted to sell him.

“Well,” she said slowly, angered for having to state the obvious, “for starters, the proper food would help a lot. Chicken broth if you have any, something that's easy on the stomach. Healing herbs would be great too. Comfrey and burdock to promote healing. Valerian to help him sleep. Something for the pain.”

Celaena raised an eyebrow. “Sounds overly complicated to me. Perhaps I should just purchase a healing potion and pour it down his throat.”

“You'd be lucky if it stays down,” Triss argued. “Your magic might have stopped the internal bleeding but as far as I can tell, it did nothing beyond that. And for Melitele's sake, let him lie down again.”

The last words were sharp and Celaena turned to cast her eyes on the witcher behind her. Geralt was swaying, face white and glistening with sweat, but was still holding the position as ordered. There was a faint flicker in his eyes that told Triss he wasn't quite as oblivious as Celaena believed him to be but she doubted that the mage noticed.

“He does look a bit pale, doesn't he,” Celaena said, her elegant brows creased in thought. “Oh, well. Have it your way.”

She flicked her hand and Geralt lowered himself to the ground to settle against the wall. By the look in his eyes, Triss was sure that he was still under her spell.

“Happy now?” Celaena asked dryly.

“Far from it. But I guess that's as good as it gets.”

Celaena tilted her head slightly, regarding her with a look that was half curiosity and half pity.

“You know, it is kind of strange how much you care about this witcher. I mean, the way you act, one might think you have feelings for him.”

“I don't see how that is any of your concern,” Triss replied dryly.

The blond woman smiled disdainfully.

“Of course not. I just wonder. You're a sorceress, adviser of the king. Why risk your life for a mutant? Why do you even care?”

Triss's eyes narrowed. “The question is why you don't. How do you even sleep at night, knowing that you are going to sell him into slavery? Don't you have the slightest amount of human decency?”

“Decency?” Celaena gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “Gods, you are so adorable! We are mage-born, Triss, the silly rules of men don't apply to us.”

“Of course they do,” Triss objected heatedly. “And why wouldn't they? Do you think you're above everyone else?”

“Gods, you are so naive. Haven't you learned anything at Aretuza?” Celaena snorted. “Let's just take our honorable rectoress, Tissaia de Vries, who condemns those students who don't meet her standards to an eternal life of servitude. Just like that, no second thoughts. Have you ever wondered how many eels dwell in the caves under the academy, channeling the chaos to increase the powers of those who are deemed worthy? It's all about utilizing others - humans, mages, mutants.”

Triss firmed her lips, recognizing the logic in her reasoning. She knew that some of the practices at Aretuza were questionable to say the least and she didn't approve of that particular practice at all. However, it seemed wrong to use that as an excuse for one's own iniquities.

“I guess that's also how you rectify what you did to Melida,” she said darkly. “Too bad you weren't turned into an eel yourself. You would have deserved it.”

“Well, some of the teachers understood what I was trying to do.”

“Oh, really? And what was that?”

Celaena gave a slight smile. “Improving science.”

Triss glared at her, silenced by the sheer insolence of it. She remembered Melida vividly, a charismatic redhead, lively and with an almost childlike sense of humor. She had been a talented student, until her fatal accident – at least that had been the official version. Rumors had it that someone had systematically messed with the girl's mind, forging false memories and ripping suppressed ones from her subconscious, with disastrous results. Triss had found her one night, drawn to the deserted classroom by her tormented screams, and she had been haunted by the sight ever since. Even now she could see her disheveled figure crouching on the floor, hugging herself, wailing. The sight of her bloodied arms and face, every inch of skin scratched open. Her incoherent babbles, repeating one name over and over again. Celaena.

Triss's eyes turned hard.

“How did messing with that poor girl's mind improve science?”

“I was merely gaining insight into how a mage's mind worked.” Celaena shrugged. “Well, Tissaia certainly didn't appreciate it, although my work was quite promising. Her double standards are amusing, actually. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if somebody else had been in charge back then.”

“Melida lost her mind because of you. She eventually took her own life.”

“I didn't know that.” Celaena tilted her head, pondering the information. “Well, it's a better fate than spending your remaining days as an eel, don't you think?”

Triss shook her head in disgust. “You had no right. Domination magic is frowned upon for a reason. Mages should never use their power to exploit others.”

“But they always have! Do you think a djinn chooses to fulfill your wishes? No. it has to be caught and forced into submission.”

“But Geralt...”

“Is a witcher. A mutant, created by mages to serve a purpose. To keep mankind safe from monsters, and give his life if need be. Try to think of it this way - I'm just handing him over to a new master.”

“You are insane,” Triss spat, heart filled with righteous anger. “Tissaia was right to have you expelled. The world is better off without mages like you.”

Celaena chuckled, genuinely amused.

“Calm down. Tomorrow you will have forgotten everything about this. You won't even remember your poor witcher friend. It will be as if this never happened.”

Triss's eyes widened as she realized what the mage was implying, remembering just now the plans she had overheard a night ago. A cold rush of fear broke over her at the thought of that woman messing with her memories. Glimpses of Melida materialized before her mind's eye, images of a ravaged mind, broken beyond repair. Suddenly she felt very sick.

“Gods, look at you.” Celaena reached to gently push an unruly strand of hair from the other woman's face, and Triss flinched. “You're a mess. I bet you long for a hot bath and a good night's sleep, don't you? It's really about time you returned to Foltest's court. And who knows? Your return might even throw the city guards off my tail. They've been searching for me, you know. Asking questions. We don't want them to get lucky, do we?”

“But you need me,” she said hoarsely. “Geralt is still very sick. What do you think your customer will say if his witcher is half dead?”

A smile tugged at Celaena's lips. “He isn't in critical condition anymore, even I can see that. Which means you have outlived your usefulness.”

Despite her attempts to maintain her composure, Triss felt herself shaking.

“Don't be scared.” The gentleness in Celaena's voice didn't do anything to calm her. “I've learned a lot since my first experiments. Actually, I'm something of an artist now. It's easier of course, if the subject doesn't fight it, so your mental integrity depends entirely on yourself. Just show me what I want to see and I won't have to dig around in places you'd rather keep to yourself.”

Triss locked her jaw. There was no way that she would submit willingly. She would never forgive herself.

“I'd rather die.”

“Well, I'd rather return you alive and kicking.”

From the corner of her eye, Triss caught a glimpse of movement, a twitch of Geralt's fingers, and her heart skipped a beat. She didn't dare have a closer look though for fear Celaena might notice.

“How compassionate of you.”

“Oh, I'm just being pragmatic. You see, in case of your death people might really start to ask questions. But if you return with a fake memory – let's say the memory of my death - there's no need to look for me anymore.”

Behind Celaena, Geralt slowly extended his hand, reaching for the bottle of alcohol he had placed near his bed. His movements were labored, painfully slow, and there was a tremor in his shoulders that Triss didn't like, but his eyes were hard with determination. Most importantly, they were devoid of that blank look she hated so much.

“You have really thought things through, haven't you,” Triss replied, desperate to maintain eye contact with Celaena. “I'm impressed.”

Celaena looked smug. “You should be. After all, I have defeated you. Too bad you won't remember any of it. Now hold still.”

She placed her hands alongside Triss's head and instantly Triss felt her presence in her thoughts. Panicking, she tried to shake off Celaena's grip and found that she couldn't move at all. _Show me_ , a voice sounded in her thoughts. _Show me the witcher_. _Show me Geralt._

It was an unequal fight, Celaena using her chaos against Triss's defenseless mind, and despite her determination not to cooperate, memories of Geralt started to float up, summoned by the mere mentioning of his name. The day they first met. Him standing before her on a moonlit street, eyes alert, his sword drawn. His hair glowing white under the hood of his cloak. _Lower your sword, I am not here to hurt you._ The words she had uttered sounded overly clear in her head.

“Oh, shit.”

Tomec's startled voice pierced her ears and awareness returned just in time to see him being carried off his feet by a blast of magic that burst from Geralt's fingers. Glass shattered as Geralt smashed the bottle against the wall.

Caught completely by surprise, Celaena gave a startled squeal and whipped around as Geralt leapt towards her. He swung the broken bottle at her face in an upward arc, slashing, the motion leaving a trail of red drops in the air. She screamed, clutching her bleeding face while taking an instinctive step back, and Geralt ended his advance on his right foot which was too weak to support his weight and gave way. Unable to catch his fall, he hit the ground hard, grunting at the unexpected pain.

Driven by sheer panic, Triss slammed her boot into the groin of her downed captor and wrenched the sword from his hands, then rammed it into his stomach without a second thought. Blood spurted as she ripped it free and she stood, heart hammering in her chest, staring in disbelief. Her eyes found Geralt, who was deadly pale and struggling to get to his feet again.

“Run,” he ground out hoarsely as Triss stumbled over to him. Her hands were shaking as she passed him the sword, her legs ready to give out. “Get out of here while you still can.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head as if fighting some invisible assault.

“But what about you?”

He gritted his teeth and managed to get his feet under him again.

“Get. Out.”

From the corner of her eye, Triss saw Tomec try to lever himself to his knees and fall back with a groan. Triss hesitated for a second, thoughts racing, torn between the need to get to safety and the immediate concern for Geralt. When she had finally made up her mind, Celaena had stepped between herself and the door.

The blond mage was a terrible sight, her face a crimson mask of pain and fury, a diagonal, gaping cut running from her chin up to her left eyebrow. Blood dripped from her chin and soiled her dress. Geralt had missed her eye by a hair's breadth. She stood erect, hands spread wide to either side of her body, white sparks sizzling at her fingertips. Her eyes were dark pits of madness.

Geralt attacked. It was a fast strike, even more so considering the state he was in, the blade a flash of reflecting light as he swung it at the sorceress while lightning streaked from her fingertips and exploded around him. Triss closed her eyes at the brightness, raising her hands protectively over her head and retreated. Screams echoed from the narrow walls and made her head hurt, and a piercing pain like pure, concentrated energy ripped through every fiber of her being, stealing her breath.

When she opened her eyes again, bright phantom spots danced in her vision, afterimages from the explosion, and she found herself on her knees, trembling from the pain. She raised her eyes to Geralt's slumped form on the ground, prone and unmoving, his outstretched hand almost touching the hilt of the sword that lay just out of reach. Her gaze wandered past the shock of white hair to Tomec, who lay curled into himself, and on to the slender shape of Celaena, who was bracing her shoulder against the wall, clutching her right arm tightly. Her face was deathly pale and it was obvious she was about to pass out. Blood pooled at her feet, collecting around something that looked startlingly human.

Triss gagged when she realized it was a severed hand. The gold ring with the dark gemstone glistened with blood.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is – the final chapter. This has been my first fanfiction in a long time and officially the longest story I have ever written. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to get back into writing with a multi chapter fic (just too many things to keep track of), and I hope that I was able to bring the story to a proper end. 
> 
> Thank you for staying with me, and my warmest thanks to everybody who took the time to comment. Your positive feedback and encouragement have helped a lot to keep me going :-)

Geralt clung to consciousness with all that was left in him. He had encountered mages in battle before, knew perfectly well what nasty spells they were capable of, and under different circumstances, he would have protected himself with Quen before attacking the sorceress. He would have let the magical shield absorb most of the damage and responded with a physical attack after her first strike, playing it safe. But this time he'd had to take Triss into consideration, and since he needed to avoid another hostage situation at all cost, he had attacked the man guarding her first.

As Geralt lay bonelessly on the floor, nearly senseless with pain, he wondered if his strategy had been the right one. The magical attack had felt like lightning, pure chaos ripping through his body, and his insides were still screaming in agony. His normally strong heartbeat was reduced to an arrhythmic flutter and his breathing was shallow at best. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision. It would be easy to just give in and let oblivion claim him, but he needed to make sure that it hadn't be in vain. That at least, he had saved Triss.

Unable to move, he gazed ahead with heavy-lidded eyes, the world blurred and askew from his prone perspective. Finally, his eyes zeroed in on a slumped form that lay crumpled against the whitewashed wall across the room. Blood flowed from a wound in the man's stomach, drenching his tunic and collecting on the floor around him. Even in his dazed state of mind, Geralt recognized the rattled breathing and sheen of sweat on the white face as telltale signs of a fatal injury. The man was dying. It must have been Triss's doing, he realized with some bewilderment. It just didn't seem like something she would do.

He started to shiver, and with the curious detachment that came with the onset of shock, he wondered just how much damage he had suffered. Somewhere to his left, a body hit the floor with a thump. From the direction of it, it had to be Celaena. He wanted to see for himself, tried to lift his head enough to get a good look, but failed even at that small task. He was hurting too damn much, and he was tired, so very tired. His eyes closed of their own accord.

He would have just passed out then, if it hadn't been for the approaching footfalls and someone calling his name. The sound was followed by the touch of a hand brushing his hair from his face. Fingers pressing against his neck, seeking a pulse.

His eyes flickered open once more to catch a brief glimpse of Triss's panicked face, pale amidst its frame of dark curls and the blunt gleam of the heavy collar around her neck. So she had made it. She was okay. The realization filled him with a relief he hadn't thought possible. She disappeared from his line of vision and a moment later, he felt her take hold of his shoulder and hip and he was rolled over to lie on his back. He groaned brokenly as the jostling of his body brought on a whole new experience of agony and the world retreated into shadows.

Dimly, he was aware of a gentle touch on his shoulder that was accompanied by soft words.

“Hang in there.”

It was the last thing he heard before his grip on reality slipped, and when darkness claimed him, it was all consuming and complete.

***

For the first time in days he was comfortable. He did not know where he lay, was too exhausted to even attempt to open his eyes, but the pain that had been a constant companion lately, had finally disappeared. He was lying somewhere soft, his head cradled by clean pillows, and the acrid smell of sweat and sickness that had clung to his skin had vanished completely, replaced by the scent of soap and medicinal herbs. It was quiet, the only sounds being the slow beating of his heart and the regular intake of breath. His breath and that of another. He frowned.

To his left, he heard a chair creak as someone shifted their weight and a moment later a hand touched his shoulder.

“It's alright,” Triss's voice told him, pitched low as if she was afraid to disturb his rest. “You're safe now. Take it easy.”

His frown deepened. The last thing he recalled was an overall sense of danger and the stench of blood. The image of her face swimming above him, out of focus, her lines taut with worry. What had happened? Where was he? He tried to turn his head and open his eyes but found the movement incredibly difficult. Fear clutched him at the realization and he wanted to tell her but was unable to manage more than a weak moan.

“Don't try to move. You are heavily medicated and I have laid a powerful healing spell on you. Are you thirsty?”

He was. There was no way to tell her though, his lips moving without a sound.

“You don't have to speak, Geralt. You know that. Save your strength.”

So she was reading his mind. Which meant she had regained her powers. He was pondering on that as he listened to her moving about the room. She wasn't gone for long, but when she returned, he already felt himself drifting. He felt his head tipped up by a gentle hand, a cup held to his parched lips, and he managed a few sips before his energy left him. Gently, his head was guided back against the softness of the pillows.

“It's alright,” she repeated her words from earlier. “Go back to sleep. You need it.”

Her hand came to rest on his brow and he felt her magic wrap around him, permeate his mind, and just like that he was gone.

The next time he woke, awareness returned slowly, his senses almost reluctant to transmit information. It was as if his body was intent of staying asleep, but there was a small part of his mind, the witcher part that was trained to stay alert even when he was resting, that sensed something unnatural about his prolonged sleep and insisted he wake up now. Listening to that voice had saved his life more than once, and so he sluggishly fought his way back to the waking world, ignoring the protests of his body.

Remnants of pain registered to his fogged mind, which was strange because up until now his sleep had been painless. Slowly, it dawned on him that this was probably due to the effects of drugs and magic wearing off, and he was able to identify the source of his discomfort as the ache of barely healed injuries. When he blinked his eyes open, he glanced at a ceiling that was vaguely familiar. It took a while for him to connect the irregular shadows that flickered across the vaults above him to Triss's laboratory. He had woken here before, after he had been injured in the striga fight. Back then, Triss had been waiting at his bedside, but now he realized with mild confusion that she was nowhere to be seen.

He turned his head to confirm his assessment, letting his eyes wander across the candles that were set up in small groups to illuminate the dim place, a measure that was necessary despite the fact that it was daytime, and noted the arrangement of bandages and pastes on a narrow table nearby. In the far corner of the room he spied his swords and bag. It was then that memory returned. The curse. Triss's abduction. The fight with Celaena. Despite his weakness, he managed to sit up and paused to take a deep breath before slowly maneuvering his legs over the edge of the bed. What the hell had happened? The last thing he remembered was lying helplessly on the floor of that run-down tower room.

Looking down his chest, he noticed that the various bruises had faded completely, the extensive bandaging reduced to a simple dressing that covered the stab wound in his side. Curious, he peeled the fabric away to find the formerly gaping injury closed and freshly scarred. The abrasions around his wrists that he had sustained from the manacles while in jail had also vanished. Frowning, he shook his head to himself. How long exactly had he been out? Even with the help of a witcher potion, it would take a couple of days at least to make progress like that.

His gaze fell on a pitcher of water on the table and the sight made him realize just how thirsty he was. Cautiously, he pushed to his feet and when he was sure his legs would support him, he padded over to the table and sank into the chair next to it. He had just finished pouring himself a cup of water when footfalls sounded in the corridor, and a moment later Triss walked in, stopping dead in her tracks when she caught sight of him. She looked well-groomed and rested, wearing a dark blue dress he had never seen on her. As she approached, the familiar scent of white jasmine wafted over him.

“Geralt,” she greeted him with a surprised smile. “Looks like you managed to get up by yourself. I guess that means you're feeling better.”

He nodded. “Thanks to you, I suppose.” He looked at the steaming bowl in her hands. “Is that food?”

“Chicken broth.” Her smile widened when she saw the disappointed look on his face. “It's easy on the stomach, so don't complain. You can have something solid later.”

She sat down across from him, placing the food on the table before him. Now that he saw her up close, he had to correct his previous impression. Sure, she had taken the time to bathe and dress her hair, but the dark smudges under her eyes and her pale skin betrayed her exhaustion. He vaguely recalled her sitting at his bedside, tending to him. Guiltily, he realized that she could have used some rest herself.

“I'm glad you're hungry. That's a good sign.” She paused, studying his face with that small crease between her brows that he had come to know so well.

“How are you feeling?”

“A lot better. Thank you.”

Geralt raised the bowl to his face and breathed in the complex smell of various herbs before taking a tentative sip. It was delicious, richly flavored, and considering how long it had been since he'd had any food, it went down easily.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Almost a week,” she said gingerly, as if she wasn't sure how he was going to take it, and indeed his heart skipped a beat at the revelation. His set down the bowl.

“What?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“You were already injured when you were struck by Celaena's combat spell and it wreaked havoc in your body. You almost died, Geralt. Actually, when the guards finally arrived, I thought - “ she didn't finish the sentence, but the torn expression on her face told him all he needed to know. He realized that she must have been through a lot. “I had to put you in a prolonged healing sleep to save you.”

“What about Celaena?”

She gave a slight nod, having expected the question.

“You severed her hand. I guess you remember that?”

“Vaguely,” he admitted.

“Well, she passed out from the shock and I took the opportunity to rid myself from that god-awful collar. I was able to save her life. Her companion, however, was beyond any help.”

“You saved her?” He frowned, uncomprehending. “Why?”

After all that Triss had suffered by her hand, the decision couldn't have been easy. He wasn't sure himself if he would have allowed Celaena to live after what she had done to him.

“So she could stand trial. And to exonerate you. I wasn't sure if my testimony would be enough.” She paused. “You have been pardoned by the way. You're free to go.”

After waking up at her place, Geralt had figured that much. Still, it was a relief to hear the words out loud. There was only one more thing that he needed to know, although he was quite sure that Triss had taken care of that too.

“What about the curse?”

She hesitated, averting her gaze for a moment only, but it was enough for Geralt to tense in alarm.

“Triss?”

“It's okay.” She raised her hand in an appeasing gesture. “The curse is broken and I destroyed the ring just to make sure. The thing is,” she kneaded her lip, choosing her next words carefully, “Celaena has deviated from the traditional spell, making some changes. I can only assume that she feared her magic would not suffice to subdue the strong will of a witcher. The way she anchored the curse in your mind was – brutal, to say the least. Imagine the mental equivalent to barbed hooks.” She made a vague gesture to illustrate her point. “Something like that. I was able to remove the spell that bound you, but to remove the anchoring points would have meant to cause mental injury. Permanent injury.”

She looked at him apologetically, the crease between her brows deepening.

“That said, I don't want to rule out that there is actually a way to remove the last remains of the curse. But it is beyond my skill and knowledge. I am sorry.”

He stared at her, letting that revelation sink in. After all, they had been through, he had hoped to be finally rid of Celaena, to have broken her power over him at last. Knowing that part of her chaos was irreversibly buried inside his mind was a thought he found hard to bear. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

“What exactly does that mean?” He inquired hoarsely. “How will this affect me?”

Triss shook her head. “It's hard to tell. I doubt that it will interfere with your daily business. However, part of her chaos is still linked to you, so you will feel it when you meditate and it will almost certainly affect your sleep. What's more, it makes you vulnerable for any attempts of mind control, because the anchor points are still there. In my experience, things like that tend to become a problem when it is most inconvenient.”

“I hear you.” Geralt sighed audibly.

“I am so sorry,” she repeated. “I wish I could have done more.”

He shook his head, meeting her gaze.

“No, Triss. You have done more than enough. I wouldn't even be sitting here if it wasn't for you.” He reached to gather her hand in hers, wetting his dry lips. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Thank you for everything.”

A small smile touched her lips.

“And here I was thinking that you'd be mad at me.”

He furrowed his brows, uncomprehending. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I let myself get abducted. I knew Celaena back from the old days at Aretuza and I shouldn't have underestimated her.”

“You couldn't have known that she would show up there. I was surprised myself.”

“I'm glad you see it that way.”

She was quiet for a moment and Geralt, feeling uncomfortable at being confronted with Triss's emotions, took the chance to steer the conversation back to less complicated issues.

“I remember Celaena talking about a customer,” he said conversationally, reaching for the water he had poured for himself. “I wonder, did he eventually show up?”

Not that he expected to hear a familiar name, but he was still curious who was willing to go through such extreme measures to get his hands on a witcher. Probably more important, to what purpose. There were easier ways if one was merely interested in an assassin.

Triss hesitated and finally shrugged.

“Well, I don't see why this should be kept from you.” She met his inquiring gaze. “I am not allowed to tell you any specifics, so please don't ask for his name.”

“Alright.” Geralt raised his brows, his curiosity piqued.

“But I can tell you this much. He is a man of some standing and charges against him have been dropped by order of the king himself. There won't be any further investigations. According to the official version, Celaena wanted you for herself.”

His lips twitched slightly. Considering what little information he had already gained about the man in question, he probably shouldn't be surprised. Apparently, he was not only wealthy enough to pay for the illegal services of a sorceress, but also had enough influence to get away with it. Geralt remembered that Celaena had referred to him as his Excellency. There were a number of positions that Geralt associated with that title, but only one that struck him as especially fitting.

“Who is he?” He asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “An ambassador? Don't tell me he is protected by diplomatic immunity.”

“As I said, I am not allowed to tell you.”

Triss looked unhappy, but by the way she set her jaw, he was sure that pressing on would gain him nothing.

“Well, in that case I'd better watch my back because he might want to try again.”

“He won't.”

“What makes you think that?” He looked at her expectantly and realized that he wouldn't get an answer to that question either. “Right. I get it. You're not allowed to tell me.”

“I'm sorry.”

He sighed in frustration.

“Fine.”

He finished the broth in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed to his feet. His boots and shirt were lying at the foot of the bed and he crossed the distance in a few shaky strides. Lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress, he let out a grunt and reached for his footwear.

“Geralt, what are you doing?”

“Well, what does it look like?”

Triss had slowly tagged along and stood nearby, watching him with her arms crossed in front of her chest. He didn't have to look into her face to know that she was wearing that frown again.

“It looks like you're getting ready to leave.”

There was no heat in her voice, just sadness, and the realization caused him to stop and lift his gaze. She was standing before him, frail and miserable, the worry on her face going way beyond the concern of a healer over her patient. The anger that he had felt before fumed away. It really wasn't her fault. He reminded himself of her position at court which of course came with certain obligations. It was wrong of him to demand that she place him above the vows she had made. He didn't know what he had expected.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. He was grateful for all she had done for him and he didn't want to get into a fight with her. If her loyalty lay with the king, he would have to look for the man himself, it was as simple as that. And he'd better leave before the trail went cold. “But I really should be on my way.”

“You want to go after him, don't you.” It wasn't a question. “I already told you that he won't try again. I can promise you that.”

He sighed. He knew Triss wouldn't knowingly lie to him, but given the amount of intrigues and gossip at royal courts, it was quite possible that Triss had been lied to herself. “What if you're wrong?”

“I'm not. I've made sure of it.”

There was something in the way she said it that wiped out his doubts, and when he looked into her eyes there was a darkness that he hadn't expected to see. It was clear she had done something she wasn't proud of. Was it possible that she had taken the law into her own hands? The moment the thought took shape in the back of his mind, he knew that this wasn't the case. It wasn't like Triss. But as sure as he was about that, he knew that she was telling the truth. Whatever measures she had taken, she had succeeded. There was no need to go after the man. He didn't pose a threat anymore.

Tentatively, she stepped closer, hand extended to touch his shoulder, and stopped herself when she saw the look on his face.

“You really want to leave now, don't you.”

He didn't reply.

“Alright. I won't stop you.” She smiled sadly and gave a slight shrug. “I guess you have to get back to your horse.”

It was the line he had used the last time he had left, after she had treated the wounds he had sustained in the striga fight. He realized what she was trying to do and sighed, running a tired hand across his face.

“Roach should be fine.”

He had left the mare at the livery and paid the stableman for a week in advance. Even given the widespread hatred against witchers, he doubted that the man had neglected his duties. But there were other things he had to consider. He doubted that it would reflect well on Triss if he stayed, and then there was still the long journey home.

“I need to get back to Kaer Morhen before the snow falls,” he told her finally. “The mountain passes can close up quickly.”

“Is that your home?”

He nodded.

“Well, if that's your only concern.” She moved to sit down beside him, and he turned slightly to face her. “I can always open a portal, there's no need to hurry. If you want to, you can stay. Rest. Make sure that you are truly healed before you hit the road again.”

He lowered his gaze, not sure what to say.

“You look like you might like a hot bath too.”

It was tempting. Although his injuries were healed to a degree that would allow travel, he felt the exertions of the past days deep in his bones and the prospect of sleeping rough again was little inviting. It would be nice to enjoy the comfort of good food and a warm bed, at least until he was back to his former strength. He felt her eyes rest on him, watching him patiently, waiting for an answer.

Finally, he sighed, having made up his mind.

“Alright.” He looked up to meet her gaze. “I guess a few days won't make a difference.”

She smiled at him, relief written all over her face. “I'm glad you see it that way.”

There it was again, the feeling that this was not just a healer talking to her patient, that there was something else that he was failing to see. But he was too tired to ponder about that now. Her offer was genuine and right now, that was all that mattered.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it with all his heart. “I don't know how to repay you.”

Her hand unexpectedly came to rest on his and he looked at her, startled at the simple gesture.

“You don't have to.” Her eyes were warm. “It's what friends do.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos if you enjoyed reading, or drop me a note if the mood strikes. I'd love to hear from you!


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